Cross
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: It was not the life she chose, but the one they chose for her.
1. Part 1 Rowan

**Author's Note: **Welcome to "Cross". This fic will be made up of a series of drabbles or drabblish vignettes based on the life of the character Priestess. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks for stopping by!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Rowan**

Her name had been Rowan. It was a word her mother found in a book along with a picture of a tree. Blood red berries and long thin leaves. And her mother had a love for all things delicate. For flowers and grass and the autumnal mist that fell less and less as the ash clouds from the fallout stretched over the skies and made the world a parched wasteland.

She named her children for things that were lost. Her son was Sage. A boy with amber hair and bleached skin. After his father died, he worked the land, trowel planted in the hopeless dust of the earth, sweat on his brow. Even as a child, as a little girl with plaited hair and almond eyes, sitting on the front porch of their hovel with her doll in her skinny arms, Rowan knew her brother was strong. Special. Blessed.

And she worshipped him with all the reverence of a child-sister who saw the sun in his eyes and in his thin-lipped smile. Sage was special. Sage was blessed. He was the one who could make their worn and faded mother laugh. He was the one made tiny crosses for Rowan out of brittle twigs. And he was the one who would make something of the world, who would take the broken earth and make it bloom anew…someday…someday….

It surprised them then, the mother and the son, when the Churchmen came to take the girl away. Not the boy. Only the girl.

The Priests stood in the low-ceilinged shack, frigid and imposing with their high collars and heavy coats and silver, steely rosaries that swung from leather belts.

"The girl has been touched by God," they told the mother. "She will be brought into the clergy."

And even as their hands reached for her, pulling her from the maternal breast, from the soft, safe bosom of her home, Rowan did not weep.

Her last sight of the hovel, which would later become an uncertain and threadbare memory, was of her mother standing on the wooden porch, one hand gripping the bone-white post that supported the slanting tin roof.

"Godspeed," her mother said and that was all.

She never did get to say goodbye to Sage.

Rowan went with the Churchmen. And they changed her name. And soon, she forgot what she had been called and knew only what they called her.

Priestess.


	2. Part II Resurrection

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the second installment of "Cross". Please note that this drabble takes place after the events of the film and from now on, all drabbles will alternate between Priestess's pre-movie back-story and her post-movie journey with Priest. Hopefully that won't be too confusing! ^_^

I'd also like to thank everyone who took the time to review the last chapter, **Faith-Catherine, Mythstar Black Dragon, DarkenedMoonAngel, Genius-626, FireChildSlytherin5, **and **babydrake93. **In addition, I'd like to thank everyone who added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. I truly appreciate your support and encouragement. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**II. Resurrection**

The smoldering wreck of the train sent a blast of heat into her face, bringing with it the unwelcome promise of the hellfire that awaited them all. Her nose twitched, her nostrils dilating as the acrid scent of burning vampire flesh infused the rising clouds of gray smoke. It stank like spoiled meat and fetid blood and all things stale and dark and unsavory. The bodies fell to ash.

_Remember that you are dust_, Priestess thought wryly, her soot-stained fingers moving to make the Sign of the Cross, _and to dust you shall return._

It was a day of impermanence. A day in which gore pooled in the cracked earth and bones were blackened by cinders and the all-too familiar memories of battle rushed upon her in a wave of great, fiery vengeance, filling her with renewal…with life.

The life that she had forgotten, or at least, tried so very hard to forget.

Priestess felt weak with the promise of it, her adrenalin fading, her head and heart bearing the immeasurable weight of the world. What they had done here this day…what they had done….

It was like a dream. Like one of the misplaced memories that stole upon her during the night, tempting her with visions of the Great War and of the days when she had stood with Priest and he with her. And there had been a greatness about them then, a greatness only dimmed when the Church took away what was rightfully their's….

But things had changed now. Things had changed.

Thank God, thank God, things had changed.

Priestess watched with a strange sense of detachment as Priest mounted his motorcycle, the severed head of a vampire hanging in a sack by his side like a grotesque saddlebag. In the moment before he started the engine and slipped on his goggles, her old comrade met her gaze and held it.

He did not speak. There was little need to.

_Do we dare do this? _Priest seemed to ask her with his tired, hard eyes. _Do we go against the Church?_

Priestess felt her lips twitch, freezing somewhere between a frown and a deep, worried grimace. Once more, she looked at the wrecked train and the dead bodies and the large, charred craters that the explosives had dug into the earth.

And Priest understood.

They had already dared. They had already disobeyed.

They were already damned.

He revved the engine, guiding the motorcycle in a wide circle, circumnavigating the detritus of the wreck, the scattered pieces of metal and wood and carrion. And then with a roar and a burst of sped, Priest became a blotch in the distance, a faint trail of dust that streamed towards the city where the venomous serpent of judgment laid in wait.

Priestess shut her eyes.

_Protect him_, she prayed. _Please, God…God please protect him._

_And bring him back to me._

The last thought shocked her, jolted her into a new awareness of her frailty, of her very real and potent human desires. But she could not think of that now, could not let the strains of weakness infect her mind and render her thoughtless…useless.

There was much to be done, after all. So very much to be done.

Gladly, she accepted the sense of purpose that flooded her, the return of her warrior sensibilities. It had been a while. It had been a long, long while. But here she was, a solider again, and the restoration to her former state, to her _original _state, felt entirely natural. Expected. Longed for.

For a brief minute, she reveled in the feeling, in the pleasant assurance that control and faith and certainty brought. She was whole again, she was victorious, she was alive….

Then Hicks cleared his throat.

Priestess swallowed an intemperate sigh. There was no subtlety in youth. No patience.

The young Sheriff with the sun-warmed flesh and round, discerning eyes was standing with his sweetheart in his arms, his dirty coat sleeves wrapped around the virginal white fabric of her dress. Both young lovers had a shocked appearance about them, one of breathless fear and deep-rooted terror.

Flicking his tongue along his dry lips, the Sheriff tried his best to seem off-hand as he addressed Priestess.

"What do we do now?" he asked, half-mumbling the words, as if he was aware of the naivety behind his simple question.

Priestess managed to find a subdued smile for him. "You take Lucy home," she said.

Hicks raised his shoulders in a nervous shrug. "Yeah well, what about you? What about Priest?"

Priestess tilted her head to the side, shielding her eyes from the glare of the setting sun. "Not your concern," she said, her tone clipped but understanding. "Take Lucy home. It'll be dark soon."

_Darkness, _she thought. _Yes, how they all feared the darkness._

Hicks, though young, knew enough not to argue. After a few minutes of scrambling, Priestess helped him find a motorcycle that hadn't been entirely demolished in the explosion. As Hicks lifted Lucy onto the seat, Priestess found that could not help looking at the girl, at her pale, pretty features and soft hair and frightened, yet determined eyes.

Had Shannon looked like her daughter? she wondered.

_No matter. No matter._

Hicks settled into the seat of the motorcycle, his gloved hands curling over the handles, some of his old confidence returning as he surveyed Priestess anew.

"Can I ask you something?"

Priestess looked to the sun. It was close to the horizon, very close. Vampires, foul creatures that they were, would even prey on the bodies of their dead. And God, there were a lot of bodies.

"You need to go," she replied.

Hicks started the motorcycle, the engine coming to life with a series of computerized clicks and whirs. "I only wanted to know," he said, "why you came after us, why you went against the Church."

Shame. It pooled in her mouth, tasting of copper and all bitter, bitter things. She could not answer Hicks.

Instead, Priestess glanced at Lucy, seeing Shannon there, the dead mother, the woman she had envied because she had been blessed enough to love Priest and have him love her. For a time, anyway. And now, and now….

"Go," Priestess ordered Hicks, this time more firmly.

The Sheriff obeyed, flattening his torso against the front of the motorcycle, Lucy clinging to his back. They both drove off into the night in a blur, Lucy's white dress fanning out behind her like the smooth wings of a dove.

As they rode away, Priestess realized that they had never bothered to thank her.

No one ever did.

The dark was nearly upon her now, the black pressing close, trapping the heat of the still-burning fires beneath the dusky sky. Lingering by the train, with the stench of blood and burnt bodies and spilled fuel clouding her nostrils, she could only look up and search for the rare scattering of stars that dotted the uneasy heavens.

They were strong this night. Bright.

Bright, bright stars. Priestess stood beneath them, beneath the swirling, breathing galaxies. Beneath the planets and the moon and the sun that hid behind a veil of black. The plain stretched out before her in hues of gray and dust and muted gold. The wind, moving through the night, whispered wondrous things in her ears.

Priestess smiled.

_I love him,_, she thought, answering Hicks's question although he was far, far away. _That's why.  
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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! If you have a free moment, please leave a review. I love any and all feedback.

Part three is in the works and should be posted next week. Take care and be well!


	3. Part 3 The Clergy

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the third installment of "Cross". As mentioned in my previous author's note, this installment picks up where the first drabble left off, during Priestess's childhood and her initiation into the clergy.

As always, I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to review the last chapter, **Roses-and-Cinnamon**, **xevanescentstar, MythStar Black Dragon, Genius-626, FireChildSlytherin5, Faith-Catherine, stormyseas77, **and **Inwe[z]247. **I'd also like to thank everyone who took the time to add this story to their favorites/author alerts lists. Thank you all so much! Your support and encouragement is truly appreciated. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 3 The Clergy**

The Churchmen took her from her home, a land of plains and open desolation and stale air that hung heavily over sun-scorched flatlands, to a place of walls. And this place of walls was within another wall, one that reached its stone and steel fingertips around the base of a city that had once been grand but now stood encrusted with the grime of so many wasted centuries.

The harried noise and chaotic congestion of the gloomy metropolis was enough to startle Rowan's young senses. She was guided through the labyrinthine streets by the Churchmen, a small, scrawny girl in a paisley dress surrounded by tall and gaunt-looking strangers. The people in the city, she realized, walked with their heads bowed, their shoulders hugged close to their bodies, their fingers knotted into nervous fists.

Seeing them, Rowan couldn't decide whether they were praying…or maybe just sad.

And they had a reason to be sad. A reason to be sorrowful when they were hemmed in by the stinking gutters and the clouds of polluted smoke and the burning neon signs that glowered down at them, glaring words like REPENT and FAITH.

It all confused Rowan. Made her heart patter in her chest. Made her hands go numb and her little lips tremble.

But she would not cry. Sage had taught her not to. _Stiff upper lip girl_, he'd say. _Keep a stiff upper lip. _

She would not cry.

The Churchmen did not keep her in the streets for long. Once inside the city gates, they brought her to the only building she had seen that was not made of steel, a stone church that had chilled marble floors and decadent statues of nameless saints who seemed ready to weep for the huddled masses outside.

The saints stared at Rowan and she stared back at them, daring them to move, daring them to blink. Because she wouldn't be scared. She would never, ever be scared.

The Churchmen took her into a circular room in the middle of the building and left her alone, fading from her side like passing shadows. And as Rowan, who was bewildered but not scared, looked about her, she saw the others.

The others that were like her.

Some were children. A boy with runny green eyes and a mop of dark, stringy hair. Two twin brothers who couldn't have been more than six, soft-featured children with long eyelashes and warm, copper-colored skin. A few teenagers in dusty work clothes and scuffed, mud-splattered boots. And a young man with angular features, impossibly white skin and blue eyes that were sad, sad like the people outside. Sad. Sad. Sad.

Rowan wasn't the youngest of the group, nor was she the oldest. She felt very unremarkable standing there, the cold from the marble floor slithering up her bare legs, her hair swinging limply in a messy braid. She edged her way over to the boy with the watery eyes. He seemed to be about her age, around ten years old. And he was frightened, so very frightened.

Rowan was drawn to his fear. It was companionable, a weakness she did not share but could understand. Seeing the boy quiver and wring his hands and wipe his equally runny nose on his sleeve calmed her somehow.

She was not alone, she realized. Not alone.

"Is this the Church?" she asked the boy.

He looked up at her, his lips folding into a crooked, taut smile. "It's _a_ church," he replied.

"What does that mean?" Rowan questioned. Vaguely, she was aware of the others stirring about the chamber. Maybe, she thought, she wasn't supposed to speak. Maybe the silence was sacred, like a prayer.

The boy didn't answer.

A set of doors in the back of the chamber opened, bringing with them a cool breeze that reminded Rowan of the winter and the season when the nights were longest and people stayed locked inside for fear of them…the vampires….

She shivered.

A woman came into the chamber and Rowan recognized her immediately, not for her face or for her voice, but for the ash-colored cross tattooed on her brow, the mark of a Priest…

…or Priestess.

Her mother had told her stories of the clergy, of those strange, silent sentinels who guarded against the night, who drove back the dark because they could kill. They were saviors. They were soldiers. And Rowan knew that she should fear them, just as she should fear this woman, because she was horrible in a strange sort of way.

Horrible. Horrible. Like winter nights. Like vampire fangs and blood. Horrible.

The Priestess wasn't tall, but her presence filled the circular chamber like a sudden rush of flame and rising smoke. She had reddish hair and flat features, although her nose was aquiline and the left nostril was jagged, as if it had been ripped or cut or maybe even bitten.

Rowan fought the urge to cower before her. _Stand tall, girl,_ Sage would say. She stood tall.

The Priestess observed them, her expression an awkward mixture of disappointment and interest. She looked at Rowan, the green-eyed boy, the twins and the teenagers. And then she looked at the sad young man. Her jagged nostril widened as she exhaled sharply.

"Do you know why you are here?" she asked them.

No one answered the Priestess, save the echo of her measured voice which swirled around the chamber.

"This is simple," she continued after a breath, her booted feet shifting on the floor, signaling mild annoyance. "You have all been chosen. You have all been deemed worthy. You will be brought into the clergy. There is a war. A Great War. You have seen people die. You have seen them killed by vampires."

_Daddy, _Rowan thought. Suddenly, she felt very much like crying, no matter that stiff upper lip business.

"Now you will kill vampires," the Priestess said. She paused, then added, "This is simple."

The green-eyed boy started to weep. The twins followed.

The Priestess raised an eyebrow and Rowan noticed another scar on her face, one that trailed across her right temple, pale and delicate looking like a spider's web. "They are young," she said, speaking exclusively to the sharp-featured man, as if he alone would understand her. "They will learn."

And then she left the room. The flame went with her, the smoke lingering, feeding on doubt, on the little tears of the scared children.

But Rowan wasn't frightened. She was angry. Angry as she had been when her mother put her to bed without supper for sassing her. Angry like when she had fought with Sage and her brother had pushed her. Angry like she was sometimes when she looked out at the vast plains surrounding her old home and saw only the blank sky and the dead, dead world.

Angry. She was angry.

"I hate her!" she spat with all the venomous petulance of youth. "She's horrible!"

The others shifted. The green-eyed boy stopped crying. The twins continued. The teenagers seemed stunned and solemn. None of them would look at her…except for the young man with the high cheekbones and drained, white face.

"You shouldn't say that," he said. He was the only one who didn't seem frightened or angry or upset. Just sad. Just plain sad. "You'll be like her one day."

"No," Rowan insisted, loathing, all the while, the weak stubbornness in her voice, the painful lack of conviction. "No, I won't be."

The man dropped his hands into his pockets, his shoulders rising in a shrug. "You don't have a choice," he told her, his sorrow so real that Rowan's eyes began to burn just listening to him. "None of us do."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Just to avoid any confusion (I know I introduced many new characters in this chapter) Rowan is _our_ Priestess, the green-eyed boy is Black Hat, the sad young man is Priest and the rest of the characters, including the red-haired Priestess, are OCs.

Thank you so very much for taking the time to read! If you have a free moment, please leave a review. I'd absolutely love to hear from you. The next installment is in the works and should be posted in a week. Until then, take care and be well!


	4. Part IV A Necessary Evil

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the fourth installment of "Cross". This drabble takes place after chapter two and picks up more or less where the movie left off. Before we begin, I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter, along with those that reviewed, **Mythstar Black Dragon, Inwe[z]247, Faith-Catherine, FireChildSlytherin5, Amanda16 **and **Genius-626**. Also, I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to add this story to their favorites/author alerts. You guys rock! I am truly grateful for your support and encouragement. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part IV A Necessary Evil**

He met her at the rendezvous point. As she had hoped. As she had wished and prayed for. Priestess kept a respectful distance, let him roll his motorcycle up beside hers and pluck the goggles from his brow before she even dared to look at him.

Priest slouched in the seat, his gloved fingers curled over the low handlebars. Beyond him, near the distant horizon, the sun had already set. It was night. A black, hard night.

"It is done," he said in a voice that betrayed no shadow of emotion, no sign of relief or fear or even joy. His somberness was practiced and controlled, his expression plain. And when he glanced at his companion, the echoing emptiness in his eyes daunted even her.

Detachment. His detachment was painful, a forced break, a separation between what remained of his humanity and what he kept hidden. The yearning. The desire for vital contact.

_He has been alone_, Priestess told herself, recognizing the paranoid hunch of his shoulders, the rigid arc of his tensed neck. _He has been alone for far too long….and so have I._

They should have been together.

She stopped herself there. Gathered what remained of her sense and remembered that there was a reason for their loneliness. It was, above all things, a necessary evil.

_Evil. _The word resounded within her with dreadful straddled her motorcycle, her nostrils still burning from the copious clouds of billowing smoke that had polluted the site of the wreck, that had risen in steaming spirals from that particular evil. Although miles stretched between her and the charred corpse of a train, she could still feel the breathy heat of the flames on her skin, could hear the stomach-churning sizzle of vampire flesh as it burned and fell to ashes. And this was only the beginning, she realized. Only the beginning of what was to come, another…

"War," Priest said. He braced his long legs on either side of his motorcycle, the wrinkled hem of his black coat fanned out against the back of the seat. "We will have another war."

"I know," Priestess replied and as she spoke, she heard the tenderness in her words, the secret that they had both acknowledged. It was her weakness. Not his, no, but hers alone.

Alone.

"The Monsignors," she said, looking over her shoulder in the direction he had come, over the hills that blocked their view of the hulking metropolis. The skin on the back of her neck prickled even though the air was silky and warm. Privately, she half-wished that Priest hadn't gone directly to the city. The Church now knew what _they_ knew…and that was dangerous.

And sitting there, trapped beneath the thick canopy of silver-blue night clouds, with the vast wasteland open before her, Priestess felt vulnerable. Watched. Stalked by wickedness from both within and without.

She was trapped.

"They may try to follow us," she told him.

Priest lowered his head in a half-nod, his body stooped as he favored his left shoulder. There was a spattering of blood on his black coat. It had dried and caked itself into an earthy brown color.

_The color of life_, Priestess thought. _Not death._

"They _will_ follow us. Make no mistake, we are being hunted now," he said, his voice turning into a heavy growl. Something deep and full that promised vibrancy.

And Priestess responded to it. Her heart thudded and her skin flushed and she heard the cadence of old war cries ringing in her ears. Things were turning, _changing. _The life that she had lost, the life that had slipped through her fingers and the life that had ebbed with the passing of each day, was rushing back to her.

Some hardened knot in her stomach released. Some tense, indefinable worry. She looked down at her hands and smiled. Smiled.

She'd been working in waste management. Sanitation. A garbage collector. They had turned her into a bottom-feeder. A hopeless little shadow, one of the many millions that huddled together for protection in the city. And now, at last, she was being pulled from the dream into a reality that was sharp and raw but blessed.

Things were turning. Changing. Beginning.

_Another war. More evil. _

Priestess inhaled, drawing the heavy, dry air of the wasteland into her body, feeling it sear her lungs. "The others," she said. "If the Church pursues us, then they will go after the others. Our brothers."

"Our sisters," Priest added.

There was silence for a moment. And in that space of time, Priestess remembered their faces, sharpened by war, hardened and strengthened, weathered by time and age and glory. Yes, they had all been glorious…for a while, anyway.

"Some are dead," Priestess said. She was surprised when she felt her throat close up. The back of her mouth ached with the threat of a sob. But she wasn't sad. She had known all along that many had died. Many of their brothers and sisters. The ones she had trained with. The ones she had stood with in battle.

It had been one of the twins, after all, whom they had found in Jericho. Crucified. His earthly flesh desecrated.

And his blood had run black. Run with the hue of death.

_Evil. _

Priestess set her jaw, her lips pulling into a firm, decisive line. "How many are left?" she asked.

"Enough," Priest replied, though even he didn't seem certain. "We will find them first, before-"

"The Church," she finished for him.

More silence. She weighed the quiet in her mind. Judged it. There was a new tension between them now, the comfort of their old camaraderie falling to cinders like the wreck of the ruined train. What remained was uncertain. A faint throbbing. A low, subtle ticking.

_Was this evil?_

Priestess counted the years, those that she had spent away from him, when it felt as though her body had been torn in two, when she had been lonely, relying upon her fleeting dreams to provide comfort. To restore her humanity.

But it was hard to be whole without him. He was an extension of her soul. He always had been.

"Do you miss them?" she asked, her question guarded. "The others, I mean."

Awaiting his response was exquisite torment. Priestess wondered if he knew what she really meant to ask, if he knew but was too ashamed to say it.

_Did you miss me?_

Priest grunted, his fingers knotted over his shoulder, his skin a perilous sort of bone-white. "Sometimes," he said. He paused, then added. "We were a part of each other."

It was enough. Enough for her, at least. Enough to keep the evil away for another day. Another night.

Priestess folded her knuckles over the handlebars of her motorcycle, the metal sliding beneath her gloved palms. "We should know where to find them then," she replied.

Priest picked up on her cue. He switched on his own motorcycle and let the engine run for a minute until it warmed. "If they want to be found," he muttered, dropping his goggles back over his eyes so that she could no longer see him.

And despite the pressing urgency of their mission, despite the memory of the burning bodies and the train and the fear of what was to come-_another war-_Priestess's heart lurched and shuddered.

The weakness was hers, she reminded herself, even as Priest darted off into the night. Not his.

And it was evil. _Evil.  
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><p>They did not get far. Cresting the top of a dune, raised above the height of a deep, bowl of a valley, Priestess heard him fall behind her. Tumble into the sand off his motorcycle. And in the ashy light of the veiled moon, she saw the blood pool around him, an echo of black that only faintly mimicked crimson.<p>

Priestess stopped her motorcycle and glanced back at him. _A fallen angel_, she mused, aware of how uselessly sentimental she had become. She dismounted, steadying her vehicle in the thick sand before she went to him.

It was easy, oh so easy to take him in her arms. To sin when no one was watching. Perhaps not even God.

Priestess held him like a child, his cheek pressed to her breast, her arm lingering around his shoulders. She held him for as long as she dared, feeling the heat of a promised fever rise from his body. Fresh blood dribbled from his wounds. He was in pain.

Sitting with her legs in the sand, her long coat dusted with silvery grains, she brought her lips close enough to his to feel the steady exhalation of his breathe whisper across her mouth.

Temptation ran through her as a soul-consuming shiver, but she stopped it, stopped it there because it was evil. An unnecessary evil. And the world was wicked enough without another sin.

Priestess looked at his wounds, at the gaping hole in his shoulder and the damp sheen of delirium on his brow and the tense, taut line of his hard mouth. He could not go on, not like this.

Shelter, she reminded herself even as the lure of temptation began to fade. Priest needed shelter. And healing.

But for now, yes now, maybe he just needed her.

The others, Priestess knew, would have to wait.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! If you have a free moment, please leave a review. Feedback always makes me smile. The next installment should be posted next week. Until then, take care and be well!


	5. Part 5 Novice

**Author's Note: **This chapter was a bit of a toughie. I wrote four completely different versions of it and after much revising and fussing, I finally settled on this version which I was the most happy with (or the least unhappy with, rather). As always, I'd like to thank everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, **Genius-626**, **Lins, Inwe[z]247, Mythstar Black Dragon, VoloDiNotte, FireChildSlytherin5, stormyseas77 **and **Faith-Catherine**. I'd also like to thank everyone who added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. I honestly cannot express how grateful I am for your thoughtful support and kind feedback. Thanks, guys! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 5** **Novice**

The Church was not her home. This Rowan knew, although she only began to understand it after a year spent living in the city, cloistered away from the world in a life of pray and deprivation, and more often than not, violence.

She was a novice then. That's what they called her. Not Rowan. Not little girl. Not child. Just novice. She was a postulant, a hopeful supplicant, a candidate who had been blessed but not yet chosen to bear the cross. That would take time and training. That would take pain.

So much pain.

The others were called novices as well. The green-eyed boy who continually insisted that his name was Marcus. The young twins who didn't seem to know where they were or why. The sullen teenagers who acted strong during combat training, but always cried in their sleep at night. And the young man with the sad face who rarely said anything at all.

The Church kept them segregated and secluded from the rest of the populace in a building that stood in the shadow of the city's cathedral. It was a low, squat structure, a barracks with long halls haunted by memories and cellars that were always cold even when the heavy heat of the city festered beneath the polluted canopy of clouds.

The novices slept on hard wooden benches in drafty dormitories. They ate porridge and drank water, but also fasted. They were locked in the chapel for hours, kneeling on the unforgiving stones, prostrating themselves before the sad-faced saints and before God, who had blessed them.

It was monastic life at its worst and at the age of eleven, Rowan knew what it was to be an ascetic, someone who measured their existence not by what they had, but by what they had lost, what she had lost…

Sage. Her mother. The small tin and wood hovel in the wasteland that was ramshackle but her home nonetheless. And this Church, this place of open, empty rooms and iron-walled chapels and children who cried at night was not home. Her dormitory bed with the wooden frame and scratchy straw pallet was not her cot in the hovel. Marcus and the twins and the teenagers and the sad young man were not Sage. And the Priestess was not her mother.

Rowan hated her. She hated her.

Priestess was built for violence. She had a habit of pacing in tight circles, her figure graceful, yet tempered by a potent ferocity, an unsettled tension that mimicked a large predator on the prowl. She had killed vampires. She was the leader of the Priests and the one who knew best how to train the novices. Through obedience and pray. Through coercion and confusion. Through what the Church promised and what it denied. Through violence. Through pain.

And Priestess knew best how to hurt them. She knew how to hurt them all.

Rowan herself was too young to fight when she first came to the Church. Her bones were delicate and her body malnourished and her skin too soft and she bled easily. It was decided that she couldn't withstand the first barrage of combat training that the older novices underwent, and for the first year they spared her and the green-eyed boy and the young twins. They were granted time, they were strengthened, they were prepared for what was to come.

For the pain. So much pain. And for the violence.

The older novices were not so fortunate. They were taken to the training grounds, a great rectangular arena under the dormitories that had a sand floor and air vents in the ceiling and yellow electric lights that tried to mimic the sun but always failed.

It was in this place, this wide and empty crypt, that they learned violence. Where they learned what it was like to hurt someone else…and to be hurt.

Rowan was also brought to the training grounds every day with Marcus and the twins and together, they huddled on the stone benches outside the arena and watched. Were _made_ to watch.

Priestess was built for violence and she bred it into the novices, bled it into their bodies and breathed it into their lungs. But Rowan only hated her. _Hated_ her. And she knew she could never, never be like her. An animal that was almost human. A human that was almost animal. She would never be like Priestess.

For hours, Rowan would watch her, half awed, but always revolted by everything Priestess did. She would hurt the novices, taking their heads into her hands and smashing their skulls into the sand. She would kick them while they laid curled at her feet. She would bring blood to their lips with a flourish of her tight, little fists.

Violence. Such violence.

And Rowan was trapped by it. Isolated in a prison that itself was a paradox, an uneasy juxtaposition between faith and the worst kind of reckoning. She would sit on the hard bench on the sidelines of the arena, clutching Marcus's sweaty palm in her left hand, the fingers of her right curled around the edge of her seat, pressed against the cold, pitted stone.

She would pray. Marcus would pray. And the twins would cry, their voices bleating like lambs, their eyelashes beaded with milky tears.

And sometimes, the older novices cried with them.

It didn't happen often, only on the days when Priestess hurt them the most, when she would rush into the arena with what seemed like preternatural speed, her reddish hair swinging down her back in a long plait, her jagged nostril dilated to catch the heady scent of fear. And she would send the novices scattering. She would find the weakest and pin him to the ground, twisting his arms behind him as she told him to get up, _get up._

Sometimes the beaten novice would bury his head in dirty sand and surrender. Sometimes he would fight back. And sometimes he would even cry.

Rowan hated it when they cried. It made her feel hopeless somehow, like when she used to watch Sage drive his pitchfork into the barren earth. Like when she used to see her mother say her rosary, praying for the husband she knew was never going to come home.

It was a deep, sick feeling. An understanding that caused the meager porridge in Rowan's stomach to curdle. A knowing that made her vulnerable. She hated to feel hopeless. And she hated to see the novices cry.

The worst came on an afternoon Rowan would never forget, on a day that would have been unmemorable for its insignificance and tired ritual and useless routine. Marcus's hand had been clutched in hers. The twins were scrubbing at their leaking eyes. And the older novices fought, or tried to fight as Priestess moved among them, her body twisting and arcing, her garments streaming behind her in a mournful veil of faded black, her movements fluid yet so very ugly. So very vile.

On this day she grabbed the smallest novice, a boy who was maybe fourteen and seemed to weep the most at night. Priestess wrapped her fingers around his neck, creating an inescapable vine, and lifted him off the ground.

And the novice tried to be fight back and oh, it was terrible to witness. Terrible to recognize how futile his efforts were, even when he thrashed his legs at her, trying to sweep her off her feet as he had been taught.

He failed, his boots only breezing past her ankles and she threw him back to the ground, slamming his jaw into the stale sand.

There was a crack. The sound of bone breaking. The novice's mouth fell open, his red tongue lolling out like a dog's, his face distended. He gagged and coughed and clutched at his jawbone, which had been shattered and was already swelling with the promise of a dark bruise.

"Mama," he cried, then started to scream. "Mama!"

Rowan dug her nails into Marcus's hand as she watched Priestess start to circle. She wondered, vaguely, if _she_ had ever had a mother of her own.

"Get up," Priestess demanded.

"Mama!" the novice wept.

"Get up!"

But the boy didn't listen. He only brought his knees up to his chest in a pale effort to protect himself. Rowan watched as he rolled wildly in the sand, as he tried to make his body small so that he could sink into the welcoming earth and hide.

And for the first time, emotion flickered across Priestess's scarred face, expressing itself as puckering of the lips, a lifting of the brow. Angry. She was angry.

Or maybe sad.

Rowan couldn't tell the difference.

Priestess raised her hand, the hand of judgment, and she drew her arm back, the sleeve of her coat billowing slightly in the hoarse breeze that was pumped in from the air vents overhead. She was going to hit the boy again, this Rowan knew. She was going to hurt him.

But Priestess didn't. She didn't hit the novice because someone knocked her off her feet. Someone threw her back to the ground where her head bounced and blood bloomed in a thin trail along her brow, flashing color in an otherwise lifeless, gray world.

It had been the oldest novice. The blue-eyed, sad young man who's name Rowan didn't know and would probably never know. He stretched himself on top of the Priestess, his full weight bearing down on her body as he crushed the air from her lungs. And she was stunned. Stunned.

"Get up," he muttered, putting his lips close to her ear, the skin around his mouth dappled with sweat, "_get up!_"

And then Rowan knew. She knew.

Turning to Marcus, she released his hand. "I've decided," she said, over the sound of the twins weeping. "I've decided. I don't want to be like Priestess."

"But you will be," Marcus insisted.

Rowan shook her head. "No," she said. "I'll be like him."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Originally, it was Rowan getting the beat-down in this chapter, but upon further consideration, I thought that that scenario might be a little _too_ dark for this story. And, after all, this chapter was dark enough, I believe.

Thanks so much for reading! If you have a free moment, please leave a review. Feedback always makes my day. The next chapter is in the works and should be posted in a week. Until then, take care and be well!


	6. Part VI Scars

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the sixth installment of "Cross". Before we begin, I'd like to take a minute and thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **Inwe[z]247**, **Genius-626, Faith-Catherine, MythStar Black Dragon, VoloDiNotte, Trinideanfan, FireChildSlytherin5, saichick **and **Beautiful Liar Please Save Me**. Also, I'd like to thank everyone who added this story to their favorites/author alerts. I do hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part VI Scars **

The shack sat in the shadow of a ghost town. It was a skeletal relic, a reminder of the years that had followed the end of the War, the days when hope had flourished in abundance and flowered in the Wastelands. Boomtowns were common then, small cities that sprang up overnight, bustling with commerce and something very like promise. But that was before people realized that they didn't have any money to spend. That was before the world turned grey again and life became hard, with or without vampires. Priestess remembered those days, but she didn't like to think about them.

The night was already old when she stopped her motorcycle next to the shack, which was little more than a lean-to with pitted walls and a roof that had partially caved in. Signs of a campfire, charred soil, a few flame-blackened stones and faded ashes, told her that the place had recently played host to other weary travelers. People who needed the false comfort of having walls around them. People who came from the cities and weren't used the desolation and the wide emptiness of the Wastelands. People who were frightened and had good reason to be frightened of what awaited them in the dark, what prowled and stalked and hunted in the shielding gloom.

It even bothered Priestess sometimes, as she stood out in the open, seeing the world in shades of taupe and grey and occasionally black. Hearing the wind, which always sounded sad, wail and scream as it twisted through the far-off peaks and streaked through the flatlands.

Tonight, she realized, was one of those nights. A time of vulnerability. Of that faint, fluttering in her ribcage that pulsed with uncertainty.

And she was uncertain now, looking at the sad shack with its concave roof and wind-beaten walls. Doubtful.

But she would have to make due…for a while, at least. Until the night passed and the day arrived. Until she could stand in the sun and feel the warm rays dry the damp worry that clung to her like a second skin.

A worry that was potent and unrelenting. A worry that had evolved into raw fear.

Priest was injured. Badly.

A potent mixture of blood loss and fever had left him unable to sit upright on his own motorcycle and Priestess had been forced abandon his transport as they went in search for shelter. Now he was seated on her vehicle, his chest pressed to her shoulder blades, his head rolling loosely on his neck. She could feel him breathing. It was almost pleasant, in a deceptive sort way, to have him close to her, closer than they had been in so many long years

But there was blood on his brow and on his shoulder and he was sweating. Burning with fever.

And Priestess fearedthat she might have no way to help him, not out here, not in the dark, not in the night.

She missed the sun.

Stepping off her motorcycle, she braced her arms on Priest's chest. His body, his hard muscles and calloused flesh and heavy bones felt like dead weight, the burden of a corpse. A thick vein throbbed in his temple.

"Easy," Priestess told him, her fingers curling under his arms. She pulled him away from the motorcycle and into the shack. His boot heels made thin tracks in the sand. His coat dragged against the sun-bleached pebbles and sent them scattering. And the moon was unkind, because it showed her everything. Showed her his face and how his eyes were clenched and how his lips moved but no words came out.

She brought him into the shack and laid him on the floor and then she paused, one hand fisted in her sweaty hair.

_Don't die. Don't die. Please, don't die. _

Priest stirred. "Shannon," he said.

She tried to ignore the pain that welled up within her, the treacherous rush of jealousy, yes, jealousy, that made her pathetic. Envy was a sin, after all. A deadly sin.

Her lips were wet and she tasted salt. Sweat or tears? It didn't matter.

Priestess crept forward on her knees, cobwebs dusting her scalp, her eyes blinded by the dust motes that polluted the scant rays of moonlight that managed to slip inside the shack. She laid her hands on Priest's collar, pulling the cloth away to reveal the flesh. It was mottled with bruises and blood and broken veins. He had a deep gash in his shoulder and he was bleeding. It would need more than a bandage.

"Cauterization," she said, feeling utterly hopeless. She would have to start a fire.

The soles of her boots scratched against the rough-hewn floorboards, making a sound that mimicked the devious claws of rats and other unwelcome vermin.

Priest tensed at the noise, his eyes opening, the lids heavy and drooping. But the small slivers of his irises that Priestess could see were a milky blue, the color of the sky when it looked like it would rain but never did. Because it never rained. Not anymore.

Priestess thought he would say something to her, some terse, caustic phrase. Some order or command or question. But Priest only watched her and she wondered if he really knew who she was, or rather, who she was not.

_Shannon._

"I'm going to clean your wound," she said. Her canteen, which she kept in the saddlebag strapped to her motorcycle, was already half-empty, but she would risk the precious water now, if only to save him.

She _needed_ to save him. And there were no bandages in the shack. No clean gauze. No sutures and needle. No antiseptic.

_Just ghosts_, she told herself as she went to fetch her water. _Just a lot of ghosts. _

She hated the way her hands shook when she plucked the metal top off her canteen. There was moisture on the rim and it turned the dust on her fingers to wet grit. It made her feel unclean.

Priest moved again when she splashed water on his wound. His head, which had been resting on one of the rotten walls, lifted and he glanced at his shoulder, his expression appraising.

Priestess tried to read his eyes, but realized that she could not. There had been a time when they had been open with each other. A time when she could feel what he was thinking and that understanding had been a gift, something she had never entirely recognized until it was lost.

Like now.

"It is ugly," Priest said, his chin crushed against his collarbone as he tried to get a better look at the gash. "Another scar."

"What's one more?" she asked him, shaking more water from the canteen, as much as she dared. She had no high expectations of the Wastelands. There were no hidden groves of fragrant trees and clear, cold streams. No springs of life-giving water. No rivers. No lakes. No oceans.

And dying of thirst was terrible, even worse than succumbing to blood loss.

She stuck the cap back into the canteen, her dry tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth already. "What's one more scar?" Priestess repeated. "We weren't bred for vanity."

"Scars," Priest uttered. He tried to touch the wound, but she stopped him, pulling his hand away like a child's and pressing it back against his chest.

"We have to keep it clean," she said. "Infection."

But his eyes were rolling back into his head, a testament to delirium and the crude vulnerability it brought. "I've been thinking," he said, his words slurring together, his voice losing its esteem until Priestess almost wished he would stay silent.

"Maybe you've been dreaming," she said, noticing the round beads of sweat that dotted his temples, the little, iridescent droplets of liquid pain and weakness.

Because he was weak now, his body soft and giving, his lips creasing into something that resembled a quiet, sad smile.

"Not dreaming," Priest said. He raised his hand again and for a moment, Priestess thought he was going to pick at his wound.

But he did not.

He touched her face instead, his fingertips coming to rest in the delicate space between her forehead and her right eye, lingering, longing, whispering across her flesh.

It was too much. She had to pull away.

Priest let his hand fall back to his chest where it laid on the black cloth of his shirt, a pale, wilted spider with five trembling legs. "Not dreaming," he said, "but remembering. Do you remember, Priestess? When we were younger? There is something about youth…something beautiful. We were beautiful…for a time."

"And not now?" she asked, concerned when she felt the skin around her cheeks tighten as her jaw clenched. "Am I not beautiful now?"

She didn't know why she cared. She shouldn't. Vanity was not for them, it never had been. But beauty, ah beauty.

Lucy was beautiful. Like her mother, probably. A vision of comforting loveliness. Of smiling lips and soft skin that wasn't scarred. Like Shannon.

Shannon had been beautiful. And Priestess was…

_Never mind. _

"We haven't," Priest began, but paused to clear his throat with a lung-shaking cough. "We haven't been beautiful for a while."

Priestess didn't know why, but for some reason, she felt disappointed.

"I remember other things," she said, staring at the yawning slash on Priest's shoulder, the little ravine of dribbling, oozing red, "from when we were young. I remember how close I felt to you. How we moved and breathed and lived and it was almost…I don't know…almost as if we were one. And the closeness frightened me sometimes. Did it frighten you?"

Priest didn't say anything for a moment. He shut his eyes, the lids fluttering, his white lashes contrasted against the bruised hue of his skin. "We were very close," he said at length. "We would sit in that iron-walled courtyard by the chapel, shoulder-to-shoulder, our flanks pressed against each other. I could feel you breathing. It was pleasant…for a while, anyway."

"For a while," Priestess echoed. _Not now_, her mind added.

Suddenly, she felt like she needed to get away from him. She stood, her head coming within a few inches of the sagging roof.

"Fire," she told him. "I'm going to start a fire and then I will cauterize your wound."

Priestess turned to go, but his hand caught on the hem of her coat, pulling weakly. She could have broken free. She could have ignored him. She could have left. But she did not.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Priest struggling to sit up, his eyes now wide with some unfamiliar glint. _Fear_, she wondered. _Is it fear?_

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I've kept secrets from you."

Yes, it was fear. Tempered by insecurity, by grief. And Priestess herself became frightened. "You're delirious," she said.

Priest groaned, a low, death-rattle of a sound, and released her coat as he fell back, his head thudding as it hit the wall. "Just tell me," he said and there was a horrible note of begging in his voice, "just tell me…were you jealous?"

Priestess's tongue clicked against her teeth, the taste of the desert on her lips. All parched sand and emptiness. She swallowed. "Of Shannon, you mean?"

But Priest only shook his head, his brow scorched with unrelenting, maddening fever. "No," he said. "Not Shannon."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! If you have a free moment, please leave a review. I'd absolutely love to hear from you.

The next chapter is in the works and should be posted in a week. Until then, take care and be well!


	7. Part 7 Something

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part seven of "Cross". The scene in this chapter was briefly referenced in the last installment, but I thought it could use a little elaboration in order to show just how Priest and Priestess started to become friends. As always, I have to thank all my wonderful readers and reviewers, **Faith-Catherine, Beautiful Liar Please Save Me, saichick, Genius-626, FireChildSlytherin5, MythStar Black Dragon, ShipsThatFly, Inwe[z]247** and **VoloDiNotte**. I am truly grateful for all your feedback and support. Thanks, everyone! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 7 Something **

He was everything to her.

Rowan had never realized just how empty her life was until she found him. The yawning, hungry void in her heart, the one that she had been nursing since the day the Churchmen took her away from Sage and her mother and their home, was instantly filled by him. _Him._

He was her new idol. More real to her than God or the statues of the sad-faced saints that stood in the stony alcoves inside the chapel. Rowan found it easy, all too easy, to pin her child's faith on him, on the solemn, blue-eyed young man who rarely spoke but was beautiful to her anyway. She envied his quiet devotion and would sit behind him during Mass to watch him pray. She admired his kindness, which only expressed itself in small ways, like when he gave his meager rations to Marcus, who had been struck down by a violent fever in the second year of their training. And secretly, in her moments of girlish fascination and infatuation, Rowan loved his strength, which seemed to know no bounds.

She had seen him topple Priestess at the training grounds. She had seen him defend the weaker novices when they fell in the sands of the arena, either too weak or too wounded to rise to their feet.

She had seen all that was wonderful about him, and he was everything to her. Absolutely everything.

But Rowan was nothing to him. He almost never noticed her. Never noticed the little shadow that followed him to chapel. Never saw the girl who tried to sit near him during meals, when the long tables in the mess hall were packed with the other novices and Rowan could only hope to squeeze in on a bench a few spaces down from him. And he never seemed to hear her, never seemed to be listening during those rare times when she managed to pluck up the courage to speak to him.

She was the dust of the earth and he was the sky. She was nothing and he was something, _something. _And he never noticed her. He never, ever seemed to notice her.

Until one day. It only took one day.

Rowan was still a girl then, only three years into her training. She was not yet a warrior, not yet a Priest and she hated her life. The days were long and Priestess was cruel and she was told, all the time, that God would reward her for her sacrifices, although He never did. No longer spared the brutality of the arena, she had already been granted the privilege of standing shoulder to shoulder with the other novices, sometimes having her nose broken or her ribs cracked or her arms pulled from their sockets as she tried to fight, yet failed.

But the worst wasn't even the arena or the days of desperate deprivation. The worst didn't come even when she would think of her family and try to remember home. The worst only happened when Rowan realized, when she finally realized, that she was alone.

One day. It only took one day.

During the hour after vespers, Rowan sat in the iron-walled courtyard outside of the chapel and stared at the empty, hopeless space before her. The stones of the floor were polished smooth from the pacings of too many boot heels and the chapel itself was an unforgiving structure, a square block of metal that had the clammy, stale air of a crypt. And Rowan stared at the space, knowing all the while that she was expected back at the dormitories, but she decided that she wanted someone to come looking for her.

She wanted someone to care.

She waited a while, perched on one of the benches in the courtyard, glancing up to see that the sky was still dark, although it could have been morning. Rowan waited, but no one came, because no cared.

She started to cry.

Her tears were cold on her cheeks, slithering down to the base of her throat in tiny, trailing droplets. Rowan cried and let her sobs rise, hoping that maybe someone would hear her, that someone would care. That she wouldn't have to be alone in a world that was harsh and that she hated, _hated._

If only someone would hear her. If only someone would come. If only she wouldn't be alone…

"Why are you crying?" The voice was low and frayed, but it reached around the oppressive confines of the iron-walled courtyard, dominating the small space with a profound echo.

Rowan recognized the words and the tone. She shuddered, her tears turning hot on her cheeks even as she struggled to wipe them away. The mark of her shame was evident, a brand on her soul that was reflected in her bleary eyes and clenched fists and the way her breathing hitched when she tried to speak.

"I'm sorry," she said, apologizing for what she was. Her embarrassment doubled when she saw the edge of his shadow on the ground near her feet. He was standing close by. He could see her stringy hair that stuck to her cheeks, could see the tiny stream of mucus that ran from her nose.

Rowan scrubbed her face viciously on the rough sleeve of her black shirt, wishing, for all the world, that she had been wearing her coat with the hood. She could hide herself then, could pull the musty mantle over her head and disguise her weakness, this treacherous crack in her strength that she wanted no one to see…and least of all, him.

But he only surprised her when he stepped closer, dropping down on the bench beside her, his arms thrown casually over his knees. His face was like a skull and the hair on his head had been shaven close to the scalp, close enough to leave the skin blaring red where the razor had nicked him.

And he glanced at Rowan, truly stared at her, as if this moment of quiet had given him the opportunity to take her measure and he pitied what he saw. Because she was pitiful, a girl with gangly legs and bruised arms and a face that was haggard even though she was only thirteen.

He sighed, deeply, his nostrils flaring and Rowan thought he was going to smile, but he didn't.

"Why are you crying?" he asked again.

She bit her lip. She almost wanted to tell him then. Tell him how exhausted she was. How she missed her home, which was only a faded memory. How she wondered if her mother and brother were still alive. How she hated Priestess. How she was hungry all the time. How she thought he was the world, because he was the strongest of them all and even now, she was looking to him for the strength to carry herself through what God had chosen for her, this never-ending, soul-consuming trial. This wretched, wretched life.

But even that would be a concession, another sign of her weakness. Rowan shrugged, banging the heels of her boots against the wall and the sound her feet made against the iron was almost like a death knell. Almost.

"I hate it here," she said.

"We all do," he replied.

Her eyebrows raised in surprise. She had not expected such an admission from him, he who was always silent and seemed so devout. He who never complained or cried or showed any sign that his life was hell, as it was for all of them.

"But you're the strongest," Rowan said. For some reason, she wanted him to know that, know that he was wonderful and that she thought he was everything. Everything in the world. Everything to her.

He nodded, acknowledging her words, although his expression was reticent. "There is weakness," he said, tapping a spindly finger to his chest, "in here. We all have it. Strength is an illusion."

And Rowan wondered what he meant, but she didn't dare to ask. Whatever it was, it made him look sad.

"I hate this place," she repeated, loathing how clumsy the words sounded on her pouting child's lips, "I hate this place and I hate being alone."

"We are not alone," he replied, speaking matter-of-factly. His eyes were clear and hard, but not unsympathetic.

Rowan tried to laugh but the sound was strangled in the back of her throat, cut-off by another sob that rose to her lips before she could stop it. "You mean God," she said, her words sounding like a sigh as she tried to mask her weeping. She knew she seemed cynical then, and cynicism was dangerous, because it was linked to doubt. Priestess had warned them all against doubt. She had told them that there was only faith and without faith they had nothing. They _were_ nothing.

_And I want to be something_, Rowan thought, but she did not say it. She wanted to be something…something like him.

"I wasn't talking about God," the young man said, surprising Rowan again.

Perhaps his devotion wasn't as steadfast as she believed. Maybe her idol was false. Maybe he didn't believe in what they were doing, or rather, what was being done to them. Maybe he was nothing.

_No_, she told herself fiercely. _He is something. He has to be. _

Because if he wasn't, then she truly had nothing.

"We are not alone because we have each other," he said, bracing his hands on his knees, his thin arms stretched before him. His lithe frame was overwhelmed by the folds of his scratchy black coat and he could have been Death sitting there next to her. "We have friends."

"I don't have friends," Rowan said automatically.

And then the young man did what she wished he would all along. He smiled. His mouth creased and faint lines formed around his lips and he smiled. "_We_ are friends," he said.

"No we aren't." Her protest was numb, a mindless defense against what she perceived as impossible. Rowan stared at him then, really stared at him and tried to take his measure anew, tried to see him for what he was, not what she thought he could be.

And oh, he was still beautiful. Still so beautiful to her.

"Then we will be friends," he said. "I will be your friend."

Rowan dropped her eyes, stared at the toes of her boots that were smudged with scuffs and stained with the sands of the training grounds. She wanted to smile but she didn't, because she knew he couldn't mean what he said.

He was being patronizing. Understanding. Kind. He was humoring her, a young girl who he had found crying in the iron-walled courtyard. A young girl who was tired and scared and alone.

A young girl that he couldn't possibly be friends with, but had tried to help nonetheless.

"All right," she said, agreeing to what she knew would never happen.

He wasn't smiling when Rowan looked at him again. He wasn't smiling, but she thought he was beautiful anyway.

And that was enough, she decided. Just enough. It wasn't exactly something, but it was certainly better than nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for taking the time to read! The next installment is already in the works and should be posted next week. Until then, take care and be well!


	8. Part VIII Reproach

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part eight of "Cross". As always, I would like to thank my fantastic readers and all those who took the time to review, **saichick, FireChildSlytherin5, Faith-Catherine, ShipsThatFly, cassie89, Genius-626, Melaina Epona, Beautiful Liar Please Save Me, **and **Ana Lilly**. Also, I'd like to thank everyone who added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys are the best! I really can't thank you all enough. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part VIII Reproach**

Priestess was awakened by a rough hand, a stirring shake of the shoulder. Before she could open her eyes she heard his accusation. It came to her on the waves of heat, on the fetid air of the Wastelands that smelled of sulfur and carrion and all things ungodly.

"You fell asleep," Priest said. He towered over her, his shoulders stooped like a vulture's as the roof of the shack pressed down on him.

Priestess blinked and her awareness returned. Her cheek was pressed to the sandy floor of the hovel, the gritty beads sticking to her skin and eyelashes so that her face burned. She blinked again and felt water gather underneath her lids. It was morning. Late morning. The sunlight coming through the spidery cracks in the walls was strong.

"You fell asleep," Priest echoed. The left corner of his mouth pinched when he spoke and he chewed on his lips. There was a strong sense of compulsive energy about him, a jerky, jitteriness that showed itself in the way he moved and paced and sighed.

And yet, Priest was looking much better than he had the night before, when his voice was that of a child's and delirium took him and he could only cling to Priestess when she plunged the edge of her scalding knife against his bleeding wound. But there remained a hint of his frailty. It was easy to disregard, but Priestess recognized it in the way his eyebrows jumped together and in the way the muscles in his face bunched convulsively. It was the small sign, an allusion to the physical pain and degrading weakness that had left him so helpless. That had made him rant and rave and tempt her with the promise of secrets.

But Priestess did not want to know his secrets, if he even had any. She did not want to know because it made her frightened.

Looking at Priest, she tried to accept his abused and grudging dignity, although she didn't much care for the sudden reproach in his voice and the way he stared at her, as though she had somehow sinned. As though she was wicked.

"You were supposed to be keeping watch," he said, the insinuation of her failure accompanied by a jerk of his sharp chin.

Priestess was trapped, confined in one corner of the crumbling shack, where she had sat for hours throughout the night until sleep, that treacherous demon, took her.

And it was obvious now that Priest found something unforgivable in her lapse of vigilance.

He doubted her. How could he possibly doubt her?

She said nothing for a moment. She let him spend his quiet rage in clenched fists and twitching muscles. Priestess stretched out her own legs, her bones screaming with agony, her tendons cramped. She rubbed her knees vigorously, tasting stale ash on her lips.

"How is your shoulder?" she asked, looking at the frayed patch on his robe that was still splattered with gore. The blood had dried into an inky hue of black and when Priest moved his arms, she could just about see the ugly scab that encrusted his cauterized wound.

"Where is my motorcycle?" he asked, answering her fairly mild question with a jagged inquiry of his own.

"Not here," Priestess replied, trying to take his anger in stride. Priest was, she knew, still floundering in his own weakness, which had struck him like a snake, lacing his veins with venom. And he had been vulnerable, so very vulnerable the night before.

And Priestess had held him in her arms.

Weakness, she decided, was infectious.

The thought did not sit easily with her and she pushed herself to her feet, aware of just how small the shack was and how close she had to stand by him.

His breathing was heavy.

_Frightened_, she thought. _He is still frightened. _

Priestess almost wanted to touch him, to soothe his unfounded, naked fear with a soft caress of her fingers. But that was forbidden. That was not allowed.

"My motorcycle," Priest repeated, working his jaw tensely.

Priestess avoided his gaze. "I had to leave it behind. You could not sit upright. I had to find us shelter."

"We are stranded, then," Priest muttered with cold neutrality.

He turned away from Priestess, his elbow brushing against her stomach. And despite it all, despite every fierce admonition that rang through her mind, she felt a faint fluttering in her chest. Her heart was in her mouth.

"We have one motorcycle," she told him. Sand was leaking through the roof in little rivulets and the streams dusted the top her head, making her scalp itchy. "Is that not enough?"

Priest threw her a blank look over his hunched shoulder. "It is only sufficient. And what about water? How much water do we have left? How much did you use?"

The reproof stung her. All the while, she had tried to excuse his upset, to pin the blame on his pain and fear and what might remain of his weakness. But she couldn't help but feel hurt, couldn't help but feel slighted by his all too callous disregard for her care, for her love…

"I cleaned your wounds," she said, leveling an accusation of her own. "I did what they trained us to do. I took care of you, Priest."

He rounded on her, teeth flashing, his face suddenly rabid and bold. "And now we are lost."

His reaction was not rational. It was an animal instinct, his long repressed fury and uncertainty surging to the surface in a rush of untamed rage. And even though Priestess knew he didn't mean it, her pain was still very real.

He was angry at her and he had never been angry before.

"You are being cruel," she said, in a voice that was soft and aching. "You are being cruel like her-"

"Don't-"

"You are being cruel like the other Priestess." She hated the words as soon as they left her mouth, for they brought silence with them. A wild, miserable silence that filled the tiny shack until the walls seemed to groan with the weight of it.

They stood far apart from each other now. As far apart as the small space would allow, which gave them only a foot between them.

Priest's chest was heaving, the breath in his lungs echoing with a hollow, rattling ring. He coughed and choked, the noise wet and thin like a death rattle.

Priestess saw that he was shaking. Why was he shaking?

"Please," he said, a sickly sheen of pallor draining his face of what little color it had, "please do not speak of _her_."

Her. Her. Not Shannon. _Her._

And Priestess wanted to ask him why, but she didn't have the time.

Outside the shack, a sound rose and fell, coming over the high sand dunes with a whine and a whir and the grind of a laboring engine.

Priest looked at her and she looked at him and they didn't have to speak, because they already knew.

Someone was coming.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! If you have a free moment, please leave a review. I appreciate any and all feedback.

The next chapter is in the works and should be posted soon. Until then, take care and be well!


	9. Part 9 The Lesson

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter nine of "Cross". I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **FireChildSlytherin5, Beautiful Liar Please Save Me, Faith-Catherine, ShipsThatFly, saichick, xevanescentstar, VoloDiNotte, the anonymous reviewer** and **CxXxDarkWolf5xXxD**. Also, as always, I'd like to thank everyone who added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys all made my week. Thanks a million! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 9 The Lesson**

Rowan was fifteen when she first began to learn about love. And with the knowledge of love came the knowledge of secrets, small, nervous things kept locked away in darkened hearts. She herself did not have any secrets and for a long time, she never imagined that her friend, the sad young man with the blue eyes, could have any of his own. But that was before her girlishness began to grow into tentative womanhood. Before she was shocked out of her naivety. Before her friend, her beloved idol, wavered on his pedestal.

It all happened when she was only fifteen.

Fifteen was an otherwise conflicted age for Rowan, who had no mother to guide her through the trials of approaching maturity. And her first lesson of love wasn't gleaned from a book or heard preached from the pulpit. It was something that happened to her. Something she unintentionally stumbled upon. Something she witnessed one day and would not forget.

Rowan would never forget. Not when she was fifteen. Not in the years to come, when the memory would bother her at odd hours of unnatural weakness. Rowan would never forget what she saw. And she would never forget that shadow in her mind. That menacing threat of doubt.

Doubt in him. In the sad young man with the blues eyes. Her idol. Her very life.

But she had doubted him, for an instant on a single day, when she was coming up from the training grounds, moving along the dimly lit corridor between the women's dormitories and the washrooms. She was alone and she hadn't been looking for her friend, although he had been conspicuously absent from their afternoon lessons. But she had found him nonetheless, run into him quite unexpectedly in that small, cramped hallway that only the female novices were allowed to traverse and the men were forbidden from even glimpsing.

She was halfway up the labyrinth passage, which always seemed to curve inward towards the bowels of the building when she heard his voice. Rowan stopped. She pulled herself close to the wall. She watched and she listened. And she saw him, the sad young man with the blue eyes. She saw him with Priestess.

They were standing close together. Or maybe, Rowan reasoned, it was Priestess who was standing close to him, drawing nearer and nearer in that narrow corner of the hall, where the shadows spread out in dark stains along the floor.

And she noticed, much to her surprise, that her friend seemed wary. On edge. His head was turned to the side and he held himself all tight and tense, his arms crossed at the waist. That bothered Rowan, planted a little seed of unease in her mind. She had never seem him look _nervous _before. No, he was strong. He was resilient. He was the one who could stand before that cruel woman, unbowed, undefeated, uncompromising. He was the one who had knocked her to the ground and told her to get up, _get up_. He was the only one who wasn't frightened of Priestess.

Or so Rowan had thought. Or so she had fervently believed.

Curiosity kept her there and she pressed herself against the damp wall, wondering just why the whole scene seemed so terribly wrong to her. A bell was going off in her mind, much like the bell in the chapel that sounded the hours. It was a warning and she listened to it, placing her faith in the instinct that told her something horrible was about to happen. But even the warning was hopeless, for Rowan realized that she there was nothing she could do to stop it. She was powerless. She was weak.

And he was strong. Or at least, she thought he had been.

Not now, though. Now he was weak.

Priestess seemed to realize this and she herself didn't look quite so imposing in the soft light. Her reddish hair was spilling out of her braids and in the gloom, her scarred nose was disguised, giving her a look a subtle femininity. When she spoke, her voice was low.

"I think you are ready," she said. Her boots shifted on the sticky floor as she tried to get closer to him.

The muscles in his jaw pulled tight, the veins by his temples bulging till they looked like stretched cords. "I am honored that you find such promise in me," he answered. As he spoke, he raised a hand, covering his lips until his voice was a mild echo, like water dripping into some dark cistern. "I have been in training for-"

"Five years," Priestess lisped. "That is enough…for someone like you. I have told the Monsignors. I have told them of your talent and skill. We've agreed upon it. You will be ordained as soon as Lent is over. You will take the cross."

Rowan drew back, her stomach squirming with daunted delight. Her friend was going to be ordained. He was going to be a made a Priest. She felt proud and she felt happy and she felt just a little bit of a hope, just a little bit of hope that she too would join him some day. She too would be like him.

Not like Priestess. Like _him_.

Rowan gave into the fantasy. She imagined him with the cross on his forehead and she imagined herself looking the same way, being joined together in a way that was deep and profound and unbreakable. It would be a realization of all that she had worked for. A reward for her faith. And it would all be worth it, all the pain and deprivation and loneliness, just to see him succeed and to know that someday, yes, someday, she would too….

Because he was strong and she was going to be like him. She was going to-

"Do you think you are ready?" Priestess asked suddenly, although there was no real question in her tone. She was leaning against the wall, one knee bent, her posture casual, informal.

Rowan decided she didn't like the way the woman looked. It was unnatural. It was wrong. Her skin started to creep as she stared at the two of them and she felt as though spiders, with their gossamer legs, were running up and down her arms. She had an awful chill, watching Priestess talk to her friend. And the chill, which started along her spine, finally reached her gut, dropping a hard, cold stone into her stomach.

Rowan shivered. She was cold, but for some reason, she knew that they were warm, standing there under the gentle electric light bulbs that hummed like insects.

The sweat gleamed on his forehead. Rowan saw him raise his arm and wipe the side of his face with his sleeve. "If you say I am," he grated noncommittally, his bluff very obvious.

And Priestess, who was wretchedly astute, caught his hesitance. "That is an unfair answer," she said. "You either are or you aren't. Which one is it?"

She had suddenly become very demanding and there was an urgency in her tone and her body language. Her fingers were knotted together and her whole body, long, elegant limbs, lean torso, angular face, seemed to bristle. Her warrior's roughness had been replaced with a sleekness, giving her the appearance of a wily, wicked cat. But Rowan realized that she too was on edge. Very, very on edge.

And there was tension in the air. An indefinable atmosphere that colored the quiet conversation and made Rowan's heart thump loudly in her chest. She knew she was seeing something odd here, but she wasn't quite sure what it was. In a way, it seemed both horrible and attractive. Repulsive and…tempting.

She flicked her tongue along her lips, wetting them. _Perhaps I shouldn't be watching this_, she thought, but continued to gawk anyway.

Priestess had advanced on him again and there was only a breath of space between them. She could see her friend's chest heaving, could see that he was trapped. Cornered. The poor hunted mouse.

And there was nothing she could do to help him.

"I am," he said, clenching his calloused fingers into fists. "I am…ready."

Priestess half-turned. For an instant, Rowan caught sight of her jagged nostril. It occurred to her then that she might have been beautiful, if it hadn't been for her scars. There was a certain stateliness about her, a certain womanliness. Rowan recognized it. She wondered if he did too.

"Poverty," Priestess said slowly, the word dripping from her lips like honey. But the sweetness didn't suit her acidic tone and she only ended up sounding forbidding. "Obedience. And chastity. Do you think you can manage it? Celibacy, I mean."

He was really sweating now, the droplets of moisture trailing down his cheeks, his eyes darting around the tight corner as if in search of escape. "I…"

"It can be difficult. And it can be lonely. Are you lonely?"

He did not have time to respond. She was close to him, closer than she had been before. At any moment, her breasts, concealed beneath her smooth black tunic, would be pressed against his chest and they would be touching each other. It was something Rowan didn't want to see, something that made her angry and, if she was being honest with herself, jealous.

What Priestess was doing, she knew, was wrong. Very wrong. But just why exactly was she doing it?

"I am lonely sometimes," the woman said, a certain tremor making her words almost inaudible over the humming light bulbs. "The Church took me when I was very young. I do not remember my life before. I do not think I even had one. I was one of the first, of course. The first of the Priests. I have known nothing else, but I am lonely. Do you think that is wicked? Do you think it is wrong for me to be lonely?"

A pause. A precious, breathless pause. Priestess seemed to be waiting for him to say something and when he didn't, a look of wild abandon swept over her, consuming her countenance until her former self, her rigidity and restraint, was cast off in favor of luxurious indulgence.

"I remember," she said, "those times when we would spar in the arena. And you…you would lay your body on top of mine…It was what I wanted…"

And then she did touch him. Or at least, she tried to. Rowan saw her raise her hand, saw it hover over his chest, over his heart. Her hands were shaking. She had never seen Priestess tremble like that before.

Rowan's eyes burned. She felt like her skin was being pricked by the tiny needles her mother had once used to darn socks and old clothing. She felt like that cold stone was rattling around in her stomach, ready to tear apart her insides.

She wanted to look away. She couldn't see this. _He was going to kiss her…_

But her friend was strong. Resilient. Uncompromising. He did touch Priestess. He took her hand and thrust it away roughly, threw her off balance and sent her reeling back against the wall.

"You should not say such things," he admonished. "We give words power when we speak them."

He whirled away, putting his back to her as he strode down the hall.

Priestess was on her feet in an instant, though and Rowan thought that if she wasn't so unbending herself, she might have gone after him.

"You used to tell me," she said, her voice no longer repressed, but echoing with a terrible threat. "When you first came here, you used to tell me that I reminded you of your wife!"

And even though he didn't slow his step, Rowan did not fail to notice the slight hitch in his gait.

His face was of thunder as he walked away.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Hmm, I think it's safe to say that this other Priestess has some _major_ issues, haha.

Thanks so much for reading! If you have a free moment, please leave a review. Feedback always makes me smile. The next chapter is in the works and should be posted in roughly a week. Until then, take care and be well!


	10. Part X The Reunion

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the tenth installment of "Cross". Oh my, has it been ten chapters already? Goodness, time certainly does fly! As usual, I would like to take a minute to thank all my readers and reviewers, **FireChildSlytherin5, Yuzu, Faith-Catherine, saichick, Inwe[z]247, Genius-626, **and **ShipsThatFly**. In addition, I would like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys rock! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part X The Reunion **

Someone was coming.

Priestess felt her heartbeat quicken as the tell-tale surge of adrenalin raced through her veins, making her legs feel weak. She tried to pass through the door of the shed, but Priest reached it first, pushing her aside with a powerful thrust of his shoulder.

She grunted in annoyance, rushing outside behind him into the sunlight which was already blinding. The intensity of the heat brought sweat to her brow and she felt the rivulets stream down her face, past the collar of her coat and along the smooth flesh of her back. The fabric of her coat stuck between her shoulder blades and the desert wind blew with all the fires of hell.

Priestess squinted and looked to the horizon. There were watery mirages dancing amongst the far-off dunes, although she thought she could make out a definite figure of solid black. The figure drew closer, speeding towards her and Priest on a motorcycle, the machine grunting and laboring through the loose sand.

Her heart rose into her throat.

"Who is it?" she asked, although she knew the question was unanswerable. She was beginning to feel like more than half a fool standing there, gaping at the stranger who bore down on them relentlessly. Instinct took over then and she reached for her knife, the silver handle jutting out of its sheath by her hip. Her mouth was dry and her sight obscured and she felt impossibly dizzy, held down by the sweat-soaked weight of her clothes and exhaustion and more than a little fear.

But she would never admit her fear to Priest, he who stood stoically beneath the sun with his frayed coat and the dried blood still on his shoulder.

Almost casually, he shielded his eyes with the side of his hand, looking past the dunes where the motorcycle circled in fitful laps.

And yet when he spoke, there was a strong hint of paranoia in his voice. "The Church," he said solemnly. "They have found us already." He paused, he hesitated before adding, "Stay here."

"What?" she barely had time to protest when he had took off into the desert, his footsteps light as he darted over the heavy sand..

Priestess realized at once what was happening and her own muscles tightened, preparing her for the chase. She decided, in an instant, that she wasn't going to listen to his half-hearted admonition and ran after him, streaming over the flatlands, a dark smudge on an overwhelmingly barren canvas.

Her boot heels crackled on the pebbles, kicking up dust as she tried to catch up with Priest. By the time she reached him, he had already closed in on the motorcycle. She saw him lift his leg and deliver a kick at the figure seated on the vehicle, driving the stranger back into a cloud of exhaust.

The black-cloaked figure, however, was quick. Quicker than Priest, perhaps, because he was on his feet in a flash, his body twisting in a fluid motion as he slammed into his attacker, driving his right flank into Priest who gasped.

Priestess saw him fall to the ground. His left arm flailed wildly as he tried to steady himself, to catch at the thin air and keep to his feet. But Priest fell. He tumbled to the ground in a wretched pile, fresh blood spilling eagerly from his shoulder wound, his cheeks smudged with grime and sweat. Desperately, he tried to grip his knife and thrust it up at his assailant, but the stranger snatched his wrist, bending it back until Priestess was sure she'd hear the bone crack.

Something stirred within her then. Wild anger, tainted by he heady promise of battle, strengthened her mind and body and soul as she rushed to Priest's defense.

Raising her knee sharply, Priestess caught the attacker in the gut. She heard him groan, but he maintained his balance. Priestess leapt to the side, narrowly dodging the edge of his fist. She tried to move behind him and deliver a fierce blow of her own between his shoulder blades, but the stranger suddenly lashed out, his sun-burnt knuckles folding over throat.

She had expected him to choke her. She had expected him to end her life with a cruel flick of his wrist, snapping her neck with the true expertise of a brutal assassin. But as soon as he had touched her, he let her go, raising both his hands in the air as he took a cautious step away from both Priestess and Priest, who was still struggling to get to his feet.

"Don't," the stranger rasped, his voice muffled behind the heavy hood of his cloak. "Don't, please, my brother, my sister. I was looking for you."

Without thinking, Priestess extended her arm, helping the wounded and exhausted Priest to his feet. They both stood together, with the blaring heat of morning sun pressed against their backs.

It had been so long, she realized. So long that she hadn't even recognized his voice at first.

The figure removed his hood, showing a square, strong-jawed face marked with a cross.

"It's me," he told them both, an unlikely note of pleading jumping into his low tone. "It's Seth."

* * *

><p>It was a strange reunion. Not pleasant. Not something out of a fairy tale or a storybook, where comrades-at-arms were happily united once again. There were no grateful embraces. No shared stories. No sense of joy and contentment.<p>

Suspicion drove a wedge between them that was almost physical. Priestess and Priest crouched by the door of the shack, while Seth was trapped in the corner, more of a willing prisoner than a resurrected brother.

And Priestess was aware, ever so painfully aware, that things had never been like this between them before. That before, yes, _before_, they would have had a storybook reunion. They would have been pleased to see each other. They would have been…comforted.

But what she felt now was not exactly comfort. Instead, she experienced some wary nostalgia as she glanced at Seth, as she studied the strong line of his heavy jaw. For it was Seth, after all, who had been the weakest of the novices, the somewhat chubby boy of fourteen who had had his jaw broken by the cruel Priestess.

Seth had changed, however, as they all had. He had grown tall. His arms were muscular, his chest broad and he had a face that was both handsome and dignified in expression.

He did not look like the poor, tormented child anymore. The boy who lay prostrate in the arena, his jaw distended and swollen, his face bruised.

And Priestess couldn't help it. She smiled at him.

_I want the fairy tale_, she thought, even though she knew her wish was founded on impulsion. _I want a happy reunion._

But that wasn't allowed. Not for Priests. Not for the clergy, who could only mistrust. And it had been a long time since Priestess had trusted anyone…except for Priest.

She looked at him now, as he sat hunched beside her, one hand folded over his wounded shoulder, the side of his mouth pinched as he chewed on his pain. Priest was staring at Seth. Just staring.

"How did you find us?" he asked at length, throwing the question at their brother as though it were an accusation.

Seth, for his part, remained calm. "I was not looking for you," he said.

"But you told us-" Priestess began.

Seth cut her off. "I wasn't looking for you in particular. I was trying to find any of us… any of us that might still be alive. But the others are already in the wind. They know what happened on the train. What _you_ did." He was looking at Priest.

"And what do you believe?" Priest responded. He jerked his chin at Seth, the sharp planes of his face highlighted by the thin shadows that fell through the pitted roof overhead.

Seth looked at his hands and smiled. Faintly. "I believe that we are at war."

Vibrant affection surged through Priestess and she tasted the beauty of renewed companionship, of the bond that they all had, the one thing that could not be broken. _Never._

It was their shared cross. A burden that was not so weighty when borne by many. And she was happy to see Seth, truly happy. Priestess wanted to embrace him.

Priest, on the other hand, let his skepticism show. He bared his teeth at Seth, a fierce grimace making his face look unnaturally ugly. "Is that what the Church says? What the Monsignors have told the faithful in the cities?"

"The cities," Seth replied slowly, "are in chaos. They are some who still trust in what the Church has promised. They feed off delusion, off false security. They believe we will have peace. But they are others…there are some who believe you. They are frightened. I came because I was frightened too." He paused, his apprehension obvious. "And because I thought you might need me."

There was natural hesitancy in Seth's tone, a bit of fragile uncertainty that made Priestess's heart clench a little. Although he had matured into a strapping man, a force to be reckoned with, Seth had never truly outgrown the agonizing humiliation visited upon him by the cruel Priestess. He was, in a way, still that scared young boy howling in pain on the sand-strewn arena floor. Still the helpless novice who needed protection. And he still recognized, as Priestess did, all that Priest had done for them.

It was undying gratefulness that had brought Seth out into the far, inhospitable reaches of the Wastelands. Respect married with admiration.

Loyalty shone undimmed in Seth's soft brown eyes as he looked at Priest. Loyalty and trust.

"You've been our leader," he said, rubbing his calloused hands together in what was an obvious attempt to diffuse his own nervous tension. "We've all looked to you since the other Priestess-"

"She's dead," Priest interrupted him abruptly. "You know that she has been dead for a long time."

Silence. The desert wind battered the thin walls of their already rickety shelter. Priestess felt a creeping sensation of unease. She wasn't certain, but she thought she had detected a vague threat in Priest's voice. And Seth, for his part, appeared threatened.

"We will let the dead rest in peace, then," he said, wetting his thick lips with a flick of his tongue. "But what about the living? The others, our brothers and sisters, will be looking for guidance. _I_ am looking for guidance. Tell me, Priest. Please tell me, what do we do now?"

Priestess herself wanted to answer him. Every fiber of her being was straining to accept his proffered help and renewed offer of companionship. But she found she could only defer to Priest.

_Seth is right, _she thought, _we all do look to him. _

Priest, unfortunately, seemed undecided. After a moment, he released his grip on his shoulder and looked at his palm wet with blood. "I think the more apt question," he said slowly, "is whether I can trust you or not. Well, Seth? Try your very best to convince me."

This time, Seth did not hesitate. "The Church took many things from us, Priest," he replied in a voice that still belonged to that scared young boy. "Don't let them take that from us too."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! If you have some free time, please leave a quick review. I just love receiving feedback. ^_^ The next installment is in the works and should be posted in about a week. Until then, take care and be well!


	11. Part 11 The Secret

**Author's Note: **Welcome to part eleven of "Cross". Honestly, I cannot possibly express how grateful I am for all the wonderful feedback I've received for this story. Thank you **FireChildSlytherin5, Pangolin Dreams, ShipsThatFly, saichick, R-Bizzle, Decima Morta, J-lily, Nel, **and **Inwe[z]247. **Also, I'd like to thank the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys are the best! I truly am thankful for your kind comments and support. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 11 The Secret**

Rowan had a secret of her own now, something that she kept within her, pinned to her heart like a badge of honor. It was a thought and a whisper and a doubt, a nightmare that came to her when she slept, trailing wispy shadows of memory across her haunted mind. And when she woke she remembered everything, the words, the glances, the hesitant touches…Priestess standing in the corridor, the dim, flickering light on her scarred face.

It was her secret, what she had witnessed. But it was a secret that also belonged to him. To Priest. That was what she called him now. Her friend. The sad young man with the blue eyes.

A week after Easter he had been taken into the chapel and ordained. None of the other novices were permitted to view the ceremony, but they all eagerly awaited his return outside in the iron-walled courtyard, their excitement hanging on breathless moments of anticipation and wild curiosity. It was some hours before he emerged and when he did, he looked much the same, still the sad young man with the blue eyes…and a cross tattooed on his reddened forehead.

_The cross. _

It was the color of ashes, running from temple to temple, fading back into the flesh before it reached the bridge of the nose. Rowan thought it was beautiful, a manifestation of the soul imprinted on the skin. But as she watched him leave the chapel, thronged by a group of younger novices, she began to feel sad.

Priest had his cross, but she, as always, had nothing. He was a member of the clergy and she was not. He would be called off to war, but she, yes she, would stay in the city. Alone.

The notion of solitude had never frightened her before, but it taunted her now. It was a promise and a vague threat. It was a hard knot of unfounded fear that formed in her chest, moving and breathing and beating along with her all too fragile heart.

She became aware of the smooth flesh between her eyes, which was bare and unmarked. She became aware of her youth and her weakness, which would keep her from being ordained for at least another few years. But the world was moving without her. Changing. It was a world of secrets and shadowed corridors. A world in which Priest no longer belonged to her, but to someone else, to a shapeless mystery, to a nameless interloper.

And as Rowan watched him move through the courtyard, bypassing the insolent and intrusive questions of the other novices (Marcus in particular wanted to know if it had hurt, he was very much concerned with pain), she thought of reaching out to him. The hem of his tunic brushed past her knees and she even stretched out her fingers, wanting to touch the rough cloth, to catch hold of him and press him close to her, because they were different now. They were divided.

But Rowan knew it would be wrong of her, to touch what should never touched. She let him go instead, remembering the final lesson of her own mother, who had sent her only daughter out into the world without a single tear or regret.

Priest passed from the iron-walled courtyard. The bells were ringing in the chapel belfry and the sound was hard and metallic. Unforgiving. It resonated deep within the soul and throbbed against the heart, where Rowan could already feel several cracks forming. And she thought she might shatter with each great clang. She thought she would fall apart and let her secret out into the world, where it would no longer be hers and it would no longer be Priest's, because it was the only thing they truly shared.

Tears. There were tears in her eyes.

Rowan blinked and turned her gaze away. In the doorway of the chapel, she noticed Priestess standing there with the rest of the ordained clergy. Her bearing was regal yet somehow stiff, her own cross splayed across her pale forehead, the mark of someone blessed, but also damned.

It was then that Rowan realized something she had fought to ignore, something she had hidden in every memory and thought and whispered dream.

The secret belonged to them…but it belonged to her as well. To Priestess.

And the bells kept on ringing.

"No," Rowan said, her hands clenching into determined fists as she looked at the woman, the interloper, the enemy. "No," she said, " no, it's _mine_."

* * *

><p>It wasn't until later that night that Rowan realized she was not half as strong as her mother had been. She could not let Priest pass from her life in quiet dignity, could not quell the sudden pain brought on by the threat of separation. After lights out, when the rest of the novices were ordered to their dormitories, she lingered behind in the washrooms, waiting until she could safely sneak into the men's sleeping quarters. The act itself would have been more daring had Priest still been a novice, but as an ordained member of the clergy, he was granted the privilege of a private cell away from the long, open rooms the initiates slept in. Rowan knew she probably wouldn't be caught. And she also knew that she would probably be alone with Priest. The mere notion thrilled her.<p>

The monastery was quiet that night, as it was almost every night and she had no trouble navigating the narrow passages that snaked through the dormitories. And Priest himself was easy to find, because he wasn't asleep but standing in the doorway of his small room.

The cell was bare, as Rowan had expected it to be. Priest had his back turned when she came to the open door and he was arranging a few prayer books on the shelf over the bed. His silver rosary, a gift from the Monsignors to all the newly ordained, swung by his belt as he moved.

Rowan hesitated on the threshold. She was bathed in the glow from the lone light bulb affixed to the ceiling and the shadows of the long corridor were at her back, whispering harsh admonitions and hidden threats that she readily took to heart. She wasn't supposed to be there, in the men's dormitories. It was gross misconduct. It was wrong. And the punishment for such a trespass, she knew, would be cruel.

But it was worth it, maybe, to see Priest, to catch a tiny glimpse of his private life which she so desperately wanted to be a part of. Rowan loved the way his hands moved methodically over his books, the way he straightened them on the shelf and let his fingers brush over the cracked spines. For a wild, unrestrained instant, she imagined what it would be like if those hands touched her just as tenderly….

The thought troubled her though, and Rowan was immediately disgusted by it. Moving her feet, she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, hoping to shake loose the wicked temptation that was spreading through her mind like an inkblot. But it was Priest, with his discerning ears, who heard her shuffling about in the corridor behind him. He turned around, dropping a thin book of novenas onto his narrow bed.

Rowan's flesh burned when his gaze fall upon her. She was ashamed.

"You shouldn't be here," Priest said, but surprisingly, there was no reproach in his voice, only frank curiosity. "What are you doing?" His words broke off into a faint whisper and he quickly stuck his head through the door, glancing down the hall to see if anyone might be lingering in the deep shadows.

Rowan felt dizzy with heat. The skin on the back of her neck was clammy and she cracked her knuckles, folding her fingers against her sweaty palms. She knew she should apologize to him. She knew she should plead forgiveness for such a wrongful intrusion, but for some reason, her visit felt justified.

It had been Priest, after all, whom she had caught in the women's dormitories only a few short weeks ago. And he certainly wasn't allowed there. He certainly _was_ trespassing.

"I didn't have a chance," she began by way of explanation, "to talk to you after you left the chapel this morning. And I didn't know if I'd have the chance…I didn't know if they'd make you leave," she finished lamely, trying to get her point across but failing miserably.

Rowan looked at Priest and silently begged him to understand. The new cross on his forehead, his crowning glory, stared back at her and she realized it really was ugly, really was wretched, because it would bring so many terrible things. Priest was a Priest now, and ordained members of the clergy didn't stay in the city for long. They became soldiers. They fought vampires. They went to war.

And if Priest went to war tomorrow, if he left in the early hours of the grey morning before the bell for matins could sound and before Rowan could catch a glimpse of him, she knew she might never see him again.

There were tears in her eyes. Tears.

_Don't leave_, she thought. _Please, please don't leave me._

Priest sighed. He picked up his book of novenas and shoved it carelessly on the shelf. But he wasn't angry, she realized. Just exhausted. His spirit had been whittled down and resurrected. Rowan knew that the preparations for ordination were arduous, to put it kindly. All candidates spent three days in pray and fasting, only to culminate their spiritual journey with a long ceremony and the oft times painful bestowing of the cross.

She noticed now how thin Priest looked in his long black tunic. His flesh was pulled close to the bone and his eyes, his sad blue eyes, were streaked with traces of blood.

_And this is only the beginning_, she mused. _This is only the beginning…for all of us._

Suddenly, she found she wasn't too eager to be ordained.

Priest sighed again and sank onto the edge of his bed, which was only a straw pallet with a moldy looking brown blanket. "Something is troubling you," he said, ever astute to the pain of others, although his own agony was surely considerable.

Rowan felt very selfish then for having disturbed him during his one moment of peace. But she was selfish when it came to him, wishing to keep him for herself, keep him away from Priestess, who had stood in the hall with him outside the woman's dormitories and pressed her body to his until Rowan thought they were going to kiss…

She had been absolutely certain they were going to kiss.

Her thoughts were spiraling out of control and she had to lean against the open door for support, the steel jamb pressing into her shoulder until her arm went numb. Rowan wanted to unburden herself. She wanted to tell him of that secret fear she had, which was still nameless even to her. She wanted to tell him that she thought about him and Priestess and that she was angry. She wanted to tell him, she wanted to tell him that…

"I heard," Rowan said at length. "I heard that you have a wife."

She had expected more of a reaction from him. Priest was aloof, but not cold. His emotions were easy to pick apart and Rowan herself had learned to look for the signs of his personal distress, the quiet clenching of a fist, the furrowing of a brow, the twitch of a vein in his temple.

But Priest kept his head bowed and she couldn't see his face. His hands, however, rested quietly on his knees and he looked calm, almost. He looked…relieved.

"Who told you?" he asked impassively.

"Marcus," Rowan replied, inventing a lie. She didn't want him to know that she had seen him with Priestess and it was easy to pin the blame on Marcus. Priestess often called the boy an instigator and he had a habit of taking pleasure in rumor or whatever gossip he could scrape together. If anything, Rowan thought Marcus would be proud to have his name attached to such a weighty secret, considering that he delighted in the sins of others.

"Marcus," Priest echoed. "That boy is already lost."

Rowan didn't know what he meant and she didn't bother to question him. Purpose had narrowed her mind. The truth, she felt, must be close at hand. Feeling bold, she took another cautious step inside the cell. It would be too much, she realized, to sit on the bed next to Priest, but she wanted to be close to him anyway, as close as she possibly could.

She could see his chest rising and falling beneath his black tunic and she imagined what his heart would sound like if she could hear it beating. Steady, probably. Calm. As measured as a slow rainfall on a tin roof.

The light bulb blared overhead, showing all the tiny nicks and abrasions on Priest's scalp where his razor had shaved too close. The skin around that ugly cross was a sickly red and Rowan wondered how much it had hurt him…how much it would hurt her.

And she was standing so close to him, close enough to touch his shoulder.

But Priest looked up at her then, his expression open and honest, yet surprisingly hollow. Numb, Rowan decided. He seemed numb.

"It is true," he told her in a quiet voice. "I had a wife."

"Had?" Rowan picked up on the insinuation at once. "Is she dead?"

"No, but she is not my wife anymore."

Rowan knew her curiosity was wrong. Indecent, even. But the blood had rushed to her cheeks and was pounding in her ears and she felt that she had to know everything, that she had to know it all or she would be nothing. It was like a wound, a festering sore within her and she had to bleed first, she had to let the pain and the shock overwhelm her before she could be whole again.

Priest had a wife. He had been married. He had…_loved._

She wasn't sure how that made her feel. Sad, perhaps. Or maybe she was…maybe she was just jealous.

Jealous as she had been when she saw him standing with Priestess. Jealous as she had been when she thought they would kiss. _Oh God, no._

Rowan's teeth clicked together as she clenched her jaw, biting down hard on her rising torment. It was coming, she had to say it. "Did you love her?"

It was a terrible question, one that Priest didn't deserve. But he accepted the burden laid upon him, his back curving a little as he took the added weight onto his shoulders.

"Yes," he said, "but I love God more."

Rowan thought that was the best answer she could have possibly hoped for. Her idol was restored to his pedestal and she could continue worshipping him, could allow herself to be blinded by his beauty and his strength and all the things she loved, yes loved, about him.

"When the Churchmen came, she didn't want me to leave," Priest said. He had squeezed his hands into fists. "But I went with them. There would be nothing, there would be no hope in this world if I hadn't." He paused, he swallowed. "She is not my wife anymore."

It was the first hint of sadness Rowan could detect in his voice. The sorrow, which always seemed to fill his eyes now seeped into his words and she thought, for a moment, that he might cry.

And she didn't want to see him cry. It was enough. _Enough._

She had what she came for.

"I'm sorry," Rowan said, turning away from him and back towards the door, "for everything."

She was already in the corridor when she heard him. He was speaking to her and he was crying at the same time, the tears in his voice creating a dreadful echo that followed her out into the shadows.

"My wife's name was Shannon," Priest called after her. "And my daughter's name was Lucy."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks so much for reading! Part Twelve is in the works and should be posted in roughly a week. Until then, take care and be well!


	12. Part XII Focus

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part twelve of "Cross". Finally, we get a little bit of romance in this installment, along with a few hints from Priest that his past history may be less than stellar, so please feel free to guess if you pick up on the clues. I always love to hear readers' interpretations of where they think the story is going.

As usual, I would like to thank all my fantastic readers and reviewers, **saichick, FireChildSlytherin5, Beautiful Liar Please Save Me, Genius-626, R-Bizzle, MissWeatherwax, Inwe[z]247 **and **shadowcat012**. In addition, I would like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/authors alerts list. Your continued support is greatly appreciated. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest

**Part XII Focus **

An hour later they left the decaying shack, setting out over the Wastelands with the sun already high and promising noon. Although they had initially set a course for an old rendezvous point out past Augustine, their journey was postponed when they doubled back to find Priest's abandoned motorcycle. It was, unfortunately, a necessary delay. Priestess couldn't help but feel some increased sense of urgency as they inched their way back along the trail they had followed the night before. Seeing the traces of her old tire tracks winding through the sand, her body tensed and she counted the passing miles with fitful regret. Time was being wasted. And if Seth had spoken truthfully and the rest of the clergy were already in the wind, then it would be a challenge, if not impossible, to find them.

It didn't take them long to locate Priest's abandoned transport, though, and that was indeed a blessing. A sandstorm had blown in during the early morning hours, covering the great bulk of the motorcycle, but leaving its chrome side exposed, sticking out like a beacon of silver when the sun hit it. As Priest dug his vehicle out, using only his bare hands and the hilt of his knife, Priestess and Seth watched him, the sound of spraying sand coloring the awkward silence between them.

Priestess knew the quiet moment would be one of her only opportunities to speak with Seth. Her mind created fanciful questions and she wanted to ask him what he had ended up doing after the war, where he'd been and if it had been as difficult for him, as it was for her, to let go of the past.

But looking at Seth's face, seeing the strong line of his jaw, she knew that he hadn't forgotten. Memories of cruelty ran deep, hidden in the small creases around his mouth and in his eyes, which were still soft. There had always been something of gentleness about Seth, a quality that had offended the other Priestess, had enraged her enough that she had tried to take it away from him.

Priestess was pleased now to see that she had failed.

"You know," Seth said, his voice a cautious whisper as he watched Priest brush the dust from the long, low seat of his motorcycle, "I heard what happened to Shannon."

There was sympathy in his tone, along with the slight curiosity that Priestess herself felt. But she repressed her concerns and her questions, leaving only the emptiness inside her, the wondering that she had tried to dismiss, but lingered still.

"I know," she replied at length, offering Seth her own impassivity. "Me too."

Priest switched on his motorcycle. A high electronic whine signaled the start-up as the engine warmed. "It's at least a day's ride to the rendezvous point," he said, sliding back onto the vehicle with only a slight hitch in his posture, his muscles obviously sore. "And we're already late."

They all glanced up at the sun and saw how it had inched closer to the horizon, the softened light almost like a threat, a woeful herald of the night, which always came. It always came.

"We'll ride fast," Seth said, though his confidence was weak.

Priest dropped his goggles over his eyes. "Not fast enough."

* * *

><p>Six hours later they blew right past Augustine. The town was the last truly civilized outpost in the Wastelands, the rest of the region belonging to the Fringes and to the towering Hives, which had long since been emptied.<p>

Or so they had thought. Or so they had been told.

Twenty miles outside of Augustine, the sun started to set in earnest. As Priestess watched the shadows lengthen, a perverse shiver brushed cold fingers along her back. Priest was intent on riding straight on through the night. It was, in her opinion, a risk that was more reckless than calculated. And he had been reckless of late. He had loosened his hold on restraint and given into the wild abandon that she secretly feared, that she had come to believe was the root of all sin, of all evil.

Had Priest sinned?

Brining up the rear of their rather small convoy, Priestess had a good view of him, even though his back was to her and the wind whipped sand viciously over her goggles. Beyond the ringing chaos of her motorcycle's engine and the sound of the hard-packed desert soil grinding beneath her tires, her mind was plagued with doubt. Doubt in him. In _him. _It was that same uncertainty she had experienced so many years ago, when she had spotted him with the other Priestess in the corridor outside the women's dormitories. When she had been so sure that they would kiss. She knew they were going to kiss…

Had they ever kissed?

The memory seeped into her mind. It was like smoke, thick and choking. Pervasive. Unavoidable. It filled the crevices between her thoughts and reminded her that there was much she didn't know about Priest. Too much…

"_I'm sorry…but I've kept secrets from you."_

Secrets. And with secrets, she knew, came lies. Lies about what?

"_Not Shannon."_

Her grip tightened over the handlebars, her knuckles nearly rubbed raw from the flying grit, which stung her flesh like sharp hail. Priestess looked at Priest. She watched him swerve to avoid a rocky outcropping. She saw his hunched shoulders and thought of his eyes, which had been sad, but were now, they were now…

Oh God, had he lied to her?

She was distracted, distracted enough not to hear the sloping gait of a creature on all fours as it galloped up beside her. In an instant, Priestess felt all the breath knocked out of her body and she was flung from her motorcycle, the vehicle fishtailing wildly as it skittered off into a stony embankment. The world became a blur of early stars and blackened sky and sickening dizziness as she tumbled. At the last minute, before she hit the ground, she remembered to tuck her legs underneath her so that she could come up fighting. But the creature slammed into her again as soon as she was on her feet. It was a mass of grey flesh. A carrion figure that stank of rot. Slippery skin glided beneath her palms as she reached out, trying to grapple with the vampire. But the beast howled and like a spooked horse, shied to the side, its neck twisted as it tried to reach back and bite her.

The fangs were the last thing she saw. They were white at the tips, brown by the gums and blood had dried on the serpent's tongue. She reached for her knife only to find her hand pinned by thick claws. The vampire breathed on her, the full weight of its bloated, leech body forcing her to the ground.

_Infection_, she thought in the final blind moment between life and oblivious eternity. _Priest will kill me if I'm infected._

And it was a horrible way to die, really. She would have a death tainted by irony and not honor, a life forgotten and not remembered because she wasn't worthy.

How unfair. How terribly unfair-

It was then that they came for her, Priest and Seth, two blotchy shadows against the starry canvas above. They were both shouting, both pulling and Priestess felt the great weight of the vampire's body lifted off her, the creature flailing, screaming.

"Hold it!" Seth called out. "Hold it, Priest, I need to get my knife!"

A wretched squeal rent the air, along with a snarl, the ripping of skin. Priestess blinked, dragging herself up onto her side. She saw a pool of red inching towards her.

"Throat's cut," Priest muttered, his satisfaction grim. He slid his own knife back into his sheath.

Seth was straddled across the vampire's body, his estimable strength keeping the creature on the ground as it succumbed to jerking death throes.

"Surprising," he said, climbing off the corpse and straightening his coat, "how much I've missed this."

"Are you all right?" Priest strode towards Priestess. He had his hand outstretched, but she was already on her feet.

"Embarrassed," she grunted. A subtle tremor made her knees weak.

"Don't be," he reassured her. "I didn't even hear it until it was on top of you."

"Came out of nowhere," Seth muttered. He kicked the body with his boot, sending the vampire rolling onto its side, the lacerated flesh dribbling gore onto the ground. "This one's still an adolescent. Must've gotten separated from its pack."

"Or fell behind," Priest replied. He placed his heel on the vampire's head, holding the dead beast at bay as he leaned closer, inspecting the folds of skin that hung from its spindly bones. "A male. Very undernourished for its age. Look, there's a sore. See it?"

He pointed to a patch of oozing red under the vampire's right arm. Priestess took a slow step forward, her shame still burning in her cheeks although the moonlight was gracious enough to disguise her blush.

"Diseased," she noted as she glanced at the festering wound. There was some whitish discharge near the sore, a hint of the parasites that sometimes struck down young vampires who were born weak.

Her embarrassment doubled then, when she realized she had been bested by a sickly beast. It was nearly unforgivable.

_Focus_, she told herself, standing between Priest and Seth, who both easily towered over her. _No more distractions._

Her heart was thumping in her throat and her stomach churned when a breeze blew the full stench of the creature in her direction. Covering her hand with her mouth, she gagged.

_Oh God, what's become of me?_

Seth shifted, his muscular arms folded over his broad chest. An unusually harsh smile made his face look dangerous in the silver shadows of the night. "It's like something of divine justice," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the vampire, "a parasite on a parasite."

Priest exhaled sharply. He rolled his stiff shoulder, his knuckles pressed against his still tender wound. "Doesn't matter what it is," he said, "but I'd be willing to bet anything there's a pack somewhere around these parts. This one just got left behind."

"A whole pack?" Seth asked. His mirth suddenly ceded to worry. "How'd a whole pack escape one of the reservations?"

"Easy," Priest mumbled. "I saw it happen at Nightshade. So did Priestess."

The sound of her name snagged her attention, but she purposefully ignored the chatter. Discreetly, Priestess moved away from her companions and their conversation, her unsteady footsteps bringing her over to her motorcycle which now lay on its side in the belly of a rocky ditch.

It took a good deal of her strength to right it and when she did, she crouched by the tires, displeased when she noticed that the front one had a dent. It wouldn't run smoothly now, unless she stopped some place to have it fixed. She folded her hands over the seat, clenching her fingers around the lip until the bones in her wrists ached and she could taste her anger, her disappointment.

She was searching for shadows where there were none. She was grasping at a reality, a reality she had made up, for her, for Priest, that would never exist. She had been wrong in the past and she was wrong now.

_Why_, she asked herself, _have I let myself become a fool?_

There were no lies, after all. There were no secrets. Only the falsehoods she had told herself. Only the dream that she relied on for comfort. But it was just a dream, just a…

_He does not love you._

Priestess pressed her forehead against the side of her motorcycle. This was shameful. This was indeed unforgivable. It would be best if she quitted her infantile game while she was ahead, if she let go of all the insinuations her mind had created to fulfill a longing she shouldn't even have. She saw now how lethal it could become, how utterly destructive.

_I'm not jealous_, she told herself harshly_, because there is nothing to be jealous of. I'm not jealous. I'm not-_

"Were you bitten?" His voice was close by, closer than she had expected.

Priestess jumped, her neck snapping around so quickly she felt it crack.

Priest knelt beside her and she noticed he had his knife in his hand.

That made her smile. "No, I wasn't bitten," she replied.

She was surprised when he emitted a shuddering sigh and she realized how tight his eyes were, blurred by a bit of unexpected moisture that could have been sweat. Or maybe tears.

"Thank God," he said.

There was a pause. And then he kissed her. Quickly, but not chastely, on the lips. They were mouth to mouth, breath to breath and he was sweating. Or crying maybe, because there was salt on his lips.

Priest drew away, breaking the precious contact. He immediately dropped his hand over his eyes, his fingers forming a mask that even she couldn't see through.

Priestess sat back, breathless. She slouched against her motorcycle.

"Listen to me," he said. There was a warning in his voice although Priestess didn't believe it. "Listen to me." His hands were shaking.

"I am listening," she insisted, wanting to appease him in that moment, to give him everything, because he had been everything to her. He still was, he still was everything.

Priest finally lifted his hand from his eyes and she saw that he was crying. Oh God, crying. And she did not want to see him cry.

"The Church," he said, drawing out the words, letting them linger on his tongue, "they kill those who break their vow of celibacy."

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><p><strong>Author' Note: <strong>Thanks for reading! The next chapter is in the works and should be posted soon. Until then, take care and be well!


	13. Part 13 Ordination

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part thirteen of "Cross". Honestly, I thought this chapter was going to be about 2,000 words shorter than it turned out, but I suppose the story just ran away from me, haha.

As always, I would like to thank all my wonderful reviewers, **saichick, Genius-626, FireChildSlytherin5, Inwe[z]247, Mss Heart Of Swords01, Amanda16, StandingOnTheRooftops, J-lily, R-Bizzle **and **Fault.** Wow! I'm so thrilled that so many people are enjoying this story. Thank you so much, guys. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 13 Ordination**

Two years after Priest entered the clergy, Rowan herself was brought into the chapel to take the cross. She was seventeen when the Church ordained her, deeming her seven years of harsh training sufficient enough to transform a pig-tailed girl from the Wastelands into an eager killer. But in her heart of hearts, Rowan knew that her admittance into the clergy was being rushed. Although protected within the smothering steel embrace of the city walls, she was not shielded from the vile insinuations of rumor.

The war, by all accounts, was not going well.

Too often, she would encounter Priestess whispering nervously to Priest, the two of them packed away in some tight corridor with all the heavy care of battle-worn soldiers etched into their faces. Most of the vampire colonies were deeply infested in their hives and it would be years, Priestess predicted, before the clergy could gain any permanent foothold in the ravaged and drained Wastelands.

At seventeen, Rowan realized that such grave responsibilities had been readily placed onto her young shoulders. The reality of it all, the notion of becoming a hardened veteran overnight, had effectively vanquished whatever glamour ordination itself held. And as she shed her adolescence in favor of tentative adulthood, she was painfully aware that she was about to dedicate her life to a doubtful cause, to an ideal that already seemed decayed, rotting away from within.

On the eve of her ordination, Rowan lay in the novices' dormitory for the last time, savoring the feel of her now familiar cot only because she knew it would be hers no more. The others slept, the soft sound of their even breathing and sleepy sighs goading her own restlessness, which manifested itself in her legs as a discreet tingling. She clutched the edge of her bed in a vain effort to keep her body still when all she wanted to do was run. Run.

_Run away._

Could she run away?

Rowan rolled over onto her side, her eyes picking out the sleek shape of the young girl who dozed on the cot beside her. For once, she found she appreciated the dark of the dormitory at night. The bleakness fit her mood and she gave into the dampness that chilled her heart.

_Run. I could run away. _

Her lips were chapped and she picked at the dead skin with a trembling finger. She could run, yes, she could run. But then what? Rowan wondered what would happen if she refused the cross. No one had done such a thing in the past, as far as she knew, and the threat of some unknown punishment was enough to render her very hopeless. She was, it seemed, signing her life away before she could claim it. She was dying, yes, dying before she ever had the chance to live.

_But I can leave in the morning_, she thought, the words repeating themselves over and over in her mind like the endless static over the speaker in the confessional. _I can sneak out before matins and before Priestess comes for me. I can leave, if I want. I can be free._

And yet, even with mutiny on her mind, Rowan's began to surrender to the inevitable. It was impossible for her to think of running away when she would finally be joining him. _Him_. Priest.

_I've decided…I'll be like him. Him._

It was as close to Priest as she would ever get. It was the fulfillment of a secret vow she had made to him and had made to herself so many, many years ago.

_I'll be like him. Him._

Tossing about on her narrow bed, Rowan splayed her fingers across her brow and felt her clean skin. This was the only way. And she had waited so long…

_Tomorrow_, she thought. _Yes, tomorrow.  
><em>

* * *

><p>The entire process of ordination, as it turned out, took no less than three days. Rowan herself was aware of this, her knowledge relying mostly on rumor and the briefing she had received from Priestess earlier in the week.<p>

Ordination was, put simply, a journey. It was the long, last leg meant to reinforce the years of conditioning, of deprivation, of painful, unrelenting sacrifice. It was a spiritual trial that also required physical endurance. It was a final attempt to weed out the weak and the unworthy. It was, in all respects, a calculated torture.

On the first morning, Rowan was brought to the chapel in silence. No bells. No hearty congratulations. No warm, well-wishes. Only silence.

She was led by Priestess, a veritable lamb on a string, her rubber-soled boots slapping rudely on the concrete floor of the iron-walled courtyard. The sound was intrusive, a second heartbeat and Rowan was almost glad to be brought within the strong walls of the empty chapel. The cool, quiet sanctity of the place immediately enveloped her. No candles were lit. The altar was bare save for a single standing cross. A light fog hung in the air, an echo of incense burned and sent heavenward on the holiest days of the year.

Priestess brought Rowan to the steps of the altar, a curt gesture from her hand indicating that she should drop to her knees.

Without question, Rowan did as she was told.

"You may kneel upon the steps or prostrate yourself," Priestess said. "You may not sit or lie upon the pews."

"I understand," Rowan replied. She fell silent, awaiting further instruction.

Priestess, however, said nothing. Turning quickly on her heel, she strode down the center aisle to the entrance. The door was locked behind her. Rowan was left in the chapel for three days.

In the years to come, time softened the memory of the experience, dulling what was horrific into a vague remembrance of discomfort. But in the present, with the stone steps of the altar cutting into her knees and the terrible silence building around her and the smoke taking on the shapes of phantoms, Rowan was broken. Utterly broken.

She cried sometimes and when her mind was clear, she prayed. It was impossible to tell day from night, impossible to count the seconds and the minutes and the hours and the days. Rowan slept fitfully, her hot, tear-streaked cheek pressed to the cold floor. She crouched in the dark and tried to remember all that she was forgetting, Sage, her mother, the hovel in the Wastelands. She stared at the cross on the altar until the intersecting steel beams were blurred, until she thought that the mark had already been set into her flesh and she wasn't saved, but damned.

They were all damned.

When it was over, she had nearly forgotten about ordination and it took a sharp slap across the face from Priestess to rouse Rowan from where she lay in a stupor. Hands pulled her upright and brought her outside, where even the uncertain glow of the electric light bulbs in the courtyard was blinding. She was given water and fresh clothes. Someone washed her face and combed her hair with a rough hand. And then it was Priestess who was kneeling before her, holding her chin upright as she sat slumped on a stone bench.

"You will walk back into the chapel," she said, "and you will be received by the clergy."

Rowan was too weak to be ashamed of how wildly she reeled and staggered when she reentered the chapel. To her bewilderment, she noticed that the rest of the ordained Priests had gathered. Some were sitting in the pews, while others stood on the altar, but they all bore the cross and they were all ugly to look at, with their blotchy scars and hard faces, and eternally vacant eyes.

An extraordinary sort of fear came over Rowan then. The smoke in the chapel and in her mind had cleared and she suddenly realized that she was going to be one of them, no better than a monster, but one of them. She had somehow allowed herself to be trapped here, in this wretched place and the years had worn down her will to fight against them. Where was that angry young girl who had refused to cry? Where was the child she had been, the child who had vowed not to be overcome by them, to be taken and stolen away by these unfeeling shadows.

Gone. She was gone. And Rowan had become one of those shadows. They had taken her from her home and they had changed her. They had ruined her.

She wondered what would happen if she ran away, if she fled, if she just left…

But then she saw him. Priest. He was standing on the altar behind Priestess, his tall frame recognizable in a sea of uniform black, his blue eyes not sad, but kind. Welcoming.

It was almost as if he were offering her a promise, extending his hand out to her in a gesture of longed for solidarity and companionship. The pale reflection of hope was enough to soothe her.

_I've decided…I'll be like him. _

And Rowan found herself walking down the aisle to meet him, a willing bride.

When she reached the altar, Priestess slapped a hand onto her shoulder and pushed her back down on the stones. "Kneel," she commanded.

Rowan tried her best not to wince when her sore shins came into contact with the steps. It was a repeated torment. It was meaningless and yet, at the same time, necessary. Rowan thought vaguely of obedience. She had a lifetime of servitude ahead of her and she was only seventeen.

She was only seventeen.

Priestess raised her hands slightly. The movement was fluid, practiced, a call to prayer. When she spoke next, there was an unlikely softness to her voice, a chanting rhythm that was almost beautiful to Rowan. Almost.

"Brothers and sisters," she intoned, "you see here before me one who would be brought into our sacred and blessed Order. After seven years amongst us as a novice, she requests entrance into our house. If there are any among you who knows in her anything for which she should not be granted admittance, you should tell it, for it would be a better thing for you to say it beforehand, then after she has been ordained."

Rowan realized she was holding her breath. Slowly, she let it go, hoping no one would hear her deep exhale. Silence stretched over the chapel. None of the clergy spoke.

After a full minute of perilous waiting, Priestess seemed satisfied with their response, or lack thereof. She nodded to herself and offered Rowan a look which attempted to be steadying, but only came across as cold.

"Having known this novice for these past seven years, will you all vouch for the goodness of her character and her devotion to our holy Church?" she asked.

This time, the Priests spoke, the tone painfully neutral. As one, they replied, "We will."

"Do you wish her to be brought in on behalf of God?"

"We do." The undulating echo of the multitude of voices somehow seemed small in Rowan's ears. As she knelt on the stones, she tried to picture herself back at home, away from them, away from Priestess, away, even, from Priest. Perhaps she would have her own little house by now. Perhaps she would be married. Perhaps she would have been killed, long ago, in a vamp attack.

Rowan folded her hands in prayer. Maybe she should count herself as fortunate. Or maybe she should admit to herself and to all those gathered and to Priestess and to Priest, that she did not want this, that she had never, ever wanted this…

_Do I want to be like him?_

Priestess was speaking again, her measured words now directed at Rowan, her sharp chin tilted down as she looked at the humble supplicant before her. Was there some hint of sympathy in her gaze? Rowan couldn't tell, but the mere thought of it was enough to terrify her. Did Priestess know what was about to happen to her? Did she know how horrible her life would truly be?

_Yes_, Rowan thought. _And she wants me to be miserable. She wants me to be like her._

"Novice," she said, "you see now gathered before you the true power and glory of our Order. You are witness to our esteemed bearing and the honor which is rightly given to us as soldiers of the Lord. But I tell you now, you do not know the harsh commandments which lie beneath, for with great difficulty will you ever do anything that you wish. You will be sent to lands that are full of peril and you will not lay claim to any place as your home. You will be asked to kill not only vampires, but your fellow man. You will be expected to live chastely and eschew all carnal relations with men or with women. No matter your standing, you will be told to carry out the basest of tasks for the glory of the Church and for God. I ask you now, knowing full well all the hardships of our Order, do you wish to be, all the days of your life henceforth, a serf and a slave to our holy Church?"

More silence. Rowan wanted to give into it, wanted the moment to wash over her until all was nothingness. But Priestess was staring at her and she was compelled to speak. The words were on her lips. She could not stop them. She was already lost.

"I do," she said.

Priestess's right brow twitched, her mouth hitching up at the corner. There was a subtle shifting noise, the sound of bodies moving on the wooden pews and of booted feet shuffling. Rowan realized that she was shaking.

"Is there any cause which might impede you from being brought into the Order? If there be something unknown to us, you should speak of it now, for it will be better for you to have it discovered forthwith then after ordination."

"No," Rowan said, even though it seemed like a lie. She didn't want to be brought into the Order. She did not want to be ordained. Was that not enough cause?

"Do you wish to be brought in on behalf of our Lord?"

"I do, if it pleases the Church and our God."

Priestess arched her left eyebrow, her expression not skeptical, but perhaps a little disappointed. Why was she disappointed?

"Will you take the cross now?" she asked, her tone suddenly business-like.

Rowan did not hesitate, even though she wanted to. "I will."

"Give me the instruments," Priestess ordered. She turned away for a moment, reaching off to the side where a dutiful Priest handed her the equipment, the needle and the ash colored ink and the holy water that would be used to purify Rowan's profane skin before the honor was bestowed.

And as soon as Priestess planted the heel of her palm on her brow and pushed her head roughly back, Rowan realized that there was nothing sacred or beautiful about receiving the cross. It was a quick, almost sloppy act, less of a sacrament and more of a stale ritual. Her forehead was wiped clean and then the needle plunged into her skin, each tiny jab injecting ink, marking her for life. It was the permanency of the moment that truly bothered her, that made her want to squirm and scream and cry out every time the needle threatened to puncture her skull. At one point, when Rowan was feeling particularly restless, her neck and back aching from being held in such an awkward position, Priestess offered her a callous warning.

Leaning close to her ear, she whispered, "I was only fifteen when they did this to me, and I already knew enough not to scream. Don't disgrace yourself."

Rowan stilled, although she was mindful of the wild chaos inside her head. Once Priestess drew the needle away and wiped her abused flesh for the last time, her body seemed to lose the last of its nervous tension. Legs buckling, she sat back on her heels and the world swam before her, a vision of ash-colored ink and frowning Priests and steel crosses that promised everything but forgiveness.

But Priestess reached forward and pulled her to her feet. And the woman was smiling then, something of true joy making her scarred face look almost beautiful to Rowan. Almost.

"Welcome, little sister," she said and kissed her quickly on the lips.

Rowan blinked, taken aback. And then Priest stepped forward and he too kissed her. The rest followed, all of the clergymen and women getting to their feet, embracing her, the warmth of their arms and their hearts bringing Rowan back from the cold brink and into a world that loved her.

_Loved_, Rowan thought numbly. _I am loved._

The doors to the chapel were thrown open and the bells started singing, ringing in the belfry above and the crowd milled around her, bolstering her failing body and her bruised mind. Priestess was by her side, her hand clapped on her shoulder, smiling her garish smile as she tried her best to comfort Rowan, to extend to her the care of an absent mother.

And Rowan herself was weak, because when she glanced at Priestess and saw her ruined face and her loneliness, she could only say, "I didn't want to do this"

The woman did not look at her, but her smile faded a little. "Neither did I," she said.

And the bells continued to ring.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>Most of the vows referenced in this chapter were adapted from similar vows used during the admittance ceremony of the Knights Templar. The Templars were an order of so-called "warrior monks" founded during the Crusades to protect pilgrims en route to the Holy Land, although they also engaged in nearly every form of holy warfare. They were later disbanded, disgraced and even put on trial by the very church that created them early in the 14th century. Because the parallels between the Templars and the Priests are indeed striking, I couldn't help but use some of their rituals as inspiration for this chapter.

Thanks so very much for reading! The next installment is in the works and will be posted as soon as possible. I hope everyone has a great weekend. Take care and be well!


	14. Part XIV Whispers

**Author's Note: **Welcome to chapter fourteen! As always, I would like to sincerely thank all my fantastic readers and reviewers, **FireChildSlytherin5, R-Bizzle, Miss Heart of Swords01, Farren Ouro, ShipsThatFly, saichick **and **Beautiful Liar Please Save Me. **Also, I would like to thank everyone who took the time to add this fic to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys rock! I do hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XIV Whispers**

They set up camp that night in a gully not far from the site of the vampire attack. Much to Priestess's utter dismay, her motorcycle turned out to be more badly damaged than she had originally assumed. After riding for a mile, she became aware of a severe glitch in the vehicle's computer system. The motorcycle swerved drunkenly on its dented front wheel, and every time she revved the engine, the vehicle only coughed dryly, the whole seat jolting beneath her when she tried to pick up speed. She battled the motorcycle for a torturous second mile, but was finally forced to surrender to the inevitable. Seth, fortunately, didn't mind stopping for the night.

Priest did, though.

Reluctantly, he built them a fire as close to the wall of the gully as he could, and as an added precaution, he took the severed haunch of the dead vampire, a slab or stinking, grey meat, and threw it amongst the tinder. The scent of burning carrion was overwhelming, an unpleasant perfume of leech blood and diseased flesh. Priestess and Seth, however, were accustomed to the foul odor, which would be enough to drive away any lingering vampires that might consider creeping into their camp.

Together, the three of them sat hunkered down around the meager warmth, their shadows long and narrow, skeletal figures of flickering black that danced manically along the gully's craggy walls. Priestess kept her hood up, her eyes fixed on her motorcycle parked nearby. She didn't look at Priest. She couldn't bear to.

Because his lips…his lips had been warm. Dry and hot, their touch unrelenting, unforgiving and so exquisitely unrepentant. She wanted to brush her fingers across her mouth. She wanted to feel what he had felt.

But she resisted. God, oh God, she resisted.

"Who's going to take the first shift?" Seth asked after they had sat up for a while. He poked at the fire with the tip of his knife and let the blade languish in the flames until a hint of red colored the steel.

"I will," Priestess offered. It was the first time she had spoken in hours and her throat was parched. She remembered, with only a slight twinge of regret, that most of the water in her canteen had gone to Priest the night before.

"I'm not tired," she added, trying to work some spit into her papery mouth.

Priest stirred. His hood was pulled over his head and she could only catch a glimpse of his eyes when the firelight hit him directly. His face looked drawn, aged almost, as if the night had stolen his youth and left him with only care and worry and some private fear that could not be defined.

He was something of a shadow, she realized. A wraith. And for some reason, that frightened her.

"You're not taking the first shift," he said, keeping his head turned from her although his voice carried easily. "You were awake with me all last night. Sleep. I'll go first, then Seth. We might not even have to wake you."

Priestess was about to protest, but then she thought better of it. There was a certain heaviness resting atop her eyelids and a definite ache in flank from when she had been hit by the vampire and thrown from her motorcycle. Without a word, she rose and retreated a few feet away from the fire. The wall of the gully was steep and she turned her face to it, her head pillowed on the ground, which was always hard and rocky in the Wastelands.

It did not take her long to drift to sleep, but right before she did, she realized that she had given in and primal instinct, long buried, long forgotten, had risen up to conquer her once more. Almost unconsciously, she had pressed her fingers against her lips. Almost unconsciously, she had reminded herself of what had happened. And almost unconsciously, she had let the last of her resistance go and she dreamt, not of the war, but of other things.

* * *

><p>Sleep came quickly to Priestess, but it did not last. She was roused a few hours later from the pale wisps of her dreams into the cold loneliness of the desert night. The fire was still burning and she could feel its steady warmth on her neck. Neither Seth nor Priest were asleep.<p>

That troubled her.

Keeping her back to them, she listened to the subtle sound of their whispering voices, to their words which were caught up in the crackle of the smoldering tinder and the low, lullaby winds that blew over the flatlands.

"Are you still awake?" Seth asked. He seemed to be the closest to her, she judged, listening to the timbre of his warm baritone.

Priestess shut her eyes, her arms carefully cradled against her breasts. She pretended to be sleeping.

"I am," Priest muttered. His boots scraped on the rough soil as he shifted.

Seth drew in a short breath. "What about her?"

Priestess stiffened. There was a quiet insinuation in Seth's voice, enough to bring her heart into her mouth. Enough to send an unwelcome shiver along her spine. She clenched her hands into fists until her knuckles cracked.

"She's asleep," Priest replied. "I knew she would be."

"Oh," Seth muttered. He was tapping the edge his knife on the ground. Priestess could hear the metal ring as it hit the soil. It sounded like a bell. "Maybe this is a good time, then," he said. "I've been wanting to speak with you…alone."

"What for?"

When Seth didn't answer right away, Priestess felt a knot begin to form in her empty stomach. It nestled underneath her ribs and pulsed, bringing a hard frown to her face. But she tried to lay still, she tried not to let them see that she was, in fact, awake.

Priest was astute, although, and she knew he would probably notice. He always seemed to notice…

Priestess struggled to keep her breathing even. A horrible fear had crawled up inside her and started nibbling away at her resolve. She knew she shouldn't be hearing this, and despite her tempting curiosity, she really didn't want to.

"I don't want you to be angry with me," Seth said at last. He had stopped tapping his blade on the ground, the bell silenced in its tower. For a moment, the night was devastatingly quiet.

But then Priest sighed tersely. "Go on."

Priestess swallowed, her throat contracting. The sound thundered in her ears and she felt an unlikely flush rise to her cheeks. She was certain she wasn't going to like this. Oh God, she was certain…

"I saw you," Seth said and his words were heavy, weighed down by suspicion and perhaps a little embarrassment. "I saw you kiss her…before."

Priestess turned her face closer to the ground, her cheek pressed against the grainy, gritty sand. There was some moisture under her eyelids, but she couldn't blink it away.

Priest shifted again. The fire growled and crackled. "What does it matter?" he asked. "_Why _does it matter?"

"It's matters because we're Priests," Seth replied, some heat in his tone now. "It matters because we took a vow of celibacy. We swore before the Church and before God."

"The Church wants to kill us," Priest muttered, the dead coldness of his words resonating.

Priestess responded to the chill. It which slithered right up next to her, an venomous serpent and curled around her body, constricting. She shivered.

They didn't seem to notice.

Seth started to speak, but fell silent. Nervously, he tapped the edge of his blade on the ground again.

The uneasy rhythm of the knife hitting the earth made Priestess's heart beat in a quick staccato and she felt much as she had so many years ago, when she was just a girl and had stumbled upon the other Priestess and Priest, when she had come across something she hadn't quite understood.

And still didn't.

_I've kept secrets from you_…

Secrets and secrets meant lies. He had lied. Her instinct had been right. Priestess grimaced faintly, hating her intuition which had guided her to such dark places in the past. It only took a whisper, she realized, a quiet hint of disruption to stir her suspicions. And once stirred, they would not settle. She could not silence the ringing in her mind and her heart, the great, loud clanging that sounded like a bell…like some tortured bell in an iron belfry. It was a warning. It was a herald and she was forced to listen. Listen. Listen.

_Listen…_

Her eyelids hurt and she realized that she was clenching her eyes closed, as if the comforting darkness could possibly shield her from all that was ugly. Consciously, she tried to relax her body and let the stale, unused adrenalin dissipate. The heat from the fire throbbed at her back, burning.

Burning, burning, burning. Like when his lips had touched hers, like when she felt him so close and knew it was a sin.

_Burning._

"I know," Seth said, his voice dry and hollow. It came out of the night, a creeping shadow. And it was a phantom. An unwelcome ghost. A memory. "I know that it happened once before."

Priest coughed hoarsely.

"Over the years," Seth continued, "I've had time to think about things and I've had questions…doubts. I know what they told us, what you told us, Priest. And I know what I believe happened."

"This is useless," Priest interrupted. "If you want to speak with me, don't talk in circles."

It was a challenge. Priestess thought Seth would give in, relying on his natural deference and obedience, falling back on his habits, which had always served him well. But she had forgotten, after so many years, how truly brave he was. How intrepid. Seth took a deep breath…and then he plowed ahead.

"I'll be clear," he said. "I'm talking about Priestess. The one with the red-hair. The one who was our leader."

"The one who broke your jaw," Priest snapped.

"You were with her when she died," Seth said.

Pebbles scattered over the hard-packed sand. Priest had obviously gotten to his feet and the sound of his pacing was controlled. Not frantic. Not wild and mad and mournful as Priestess herself felt, with the stench of rotting vampire flesh in her nose and the shadow of his lips still lingering on her mouth.

His lips, his tongue, which he had used to lie. Because she had feared, she had ignored, she had denied his lie.

_No._

"Yes," Priest replied at length. "It was when the Church sent the two of us to scout the hives out by the West Fringes. We were the first ever to set foot in Sola Mira. It was only then when we realized how bad the infestation was."

"It's a nice story," Seth added. "Very convenient."

"We were doing recon on the upper levels," Priest continued, his voice raised and determined, the flow of his words like a drumbeat rising over the barren desert and the insidious sense of doubt that had invaded their campsite. "A patrol of hive guardians cornered us. Priestess managed to draw them off, but she didn't know the hive's passages well enough. She fell while they were chasing her, right down the mountain." He hesitated, then. "I gave her last rites."

"The Church made a martyr out of her," Seth said.

Priest overrode him. "There was nothing I could do. Absolutely nothing."

"That's what they told us."

"She died a hero. Because of her we were able to infiltrate Sola Mira a few months later-"

"And it's a lie!" Seth suddenly thrust himself to his feet, his quick movement knocking a few loose stones in Priestess's direction. A tiny rock hit her in the thigh.

"I've had a lot of time, a lot of years," he said and the accusation was there, virulent and volatile. "I've gone over it in my head again and again and I'm telling you now, Priest, there's no sense-"

"Seth," Priest warned.

"I've done the math and it's clear. Plain as day. The timing doesn't add up."

"You need to stop."

"I know more than you think. And I know…I know that's not how Priestess died."

"Enough!" Priest roared the word, his voice a trumpet blast of rage and perhaps, just perhaps, a little fear.

Silence, then. A horrible silence that ached with the echo of Priest's desperate plea. Priestess felt the tears on her cheeks, but she didn't dare move to wipe them away. Silence, silence, dear God in Heaven, the silence.

After a long minute, it was Seth, brave Seth, who finally had the nerve to break it.

"Did we wake her?" he asked, dropping onto the ground with a muted thud.

Priest took a few steps towards her. She could feel his presence, like the heat from the fire, burning against her back.

Burning. _Burning. _

"No," he said and threw himself down by the fire. When he had settled himself, he muttered, "No more of this tonight."

"Agreed," Seth replied.

They were quiet for a time and Priestess thought that it might actually be over. She hoped and prayed that it might actually be finished.

But then Seth, brave, intrepid Seth, spoke up again.

"They killed her, didn't they?" he asked.

Priest, for his part, said nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I usually don't "cast" OCs in my fics, simply because I like to leave their physical appearance completely up to my imagine, but for some reason, I keep picturing Seth as Clive Owen and the other Priestess as LeeLee Sobieski. Hmm, go figure.

Anyhow, thanks so very much for reading! If you have the time, please leave me a quick review. I'd absolutely love to hear from you. The next chapter has already been written and should be posted shortly. Until then, take care and be well!


	15. Part 15 The Apprentice

**Author's Note: **This chapter actually has a very complicated history. It was included in the original draft of my outline for this fic, but then at the last minute, I decided to take it out. However, at the _very_ last minute, this chapter decided it wanted to be written no matter what I thought. And in the end, I suppose it really needed to be written, if only because the red-haired Priestess needs to have some pertinent back-story before the you-know-what hits the fan in the next couple of chapters. ;)

As always, I have to thank all my unbelievably awesome readers and reviewers, **saichick, FireChildSlytherin5, Genius-626, Farren Ouro, Mss Heart of Swords01, R-Bizzle, Lady Krystalyn, Inwe[z]247, aprilrunrunrun, wolflover7 **and **J-lily**. Also, I would like to thank all the fabulous people who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. I do hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 15 The Apprentice**

A few weeks after she was ordained, Rowan was apprenticed to an older veteran for her initial deployment. The apprenticeship system itself was recently developed, implemented only to ensure that young Priests survived their first year in open battle. After that time, however, they were entirely on their own.

From the moment she had learned of the apprenticeship system, Rowan pinned her hopes on only one favorable outcome. She knew, in a dark corner of her heart, in the hidden, almost unacknowledged recesses of her soul, that she would be apprenticed to Priest. In her idealistic mind, the arrangement made absolute perfect sense. Rowan's attachment to him was certainly no secret. Among the circles of the clergy and the novices, it was generally accepted that they were a pair. Their relationship, which for the most part seemed innocent, was likened to the bond between siblings. They were allowed to be brother and sister. They were allowed to be friends. Nothing more. Nothing else.

Rowan herself encouraged the notion of their platonic affection. She pretended to think of Priest as a brother, if only because it was convenient and if only because it served a purpose. The truth, however, was much more dangerous and Rowan knew enough to fear it. She knew enough to hide it.

But she couldn't stop. She couldn't restrain herself from the sometimes overwhelming tide of longing that rushed over her whenever she was with him. And she couldn't keep from dreaming, from wishing that perhaps, someday, he might be hers. And she, she would be his.

Her hopes, however, were dashed very early on when she learned that she would not be apprenticed to Priest. Her idol had just finished _his_ apprenticeship with Priestess and he was not ready, nor deemed worthy to take on a fledging of his own.

But strangely enough, Rowan did follow in his footsteps, as she had always aspired to. The week before he deployment, it was announced that she had been apprenticed…to Priestess.

That hateful woman! Rowan knew then and there that she would never be fully freed of her influence. As much as she had tried to avoid becoming like her, Priestess seemed intent on spreading her poison as far as she could.

The others told Rowan that she should be honored to have been chosen by Priestess, who was very discerning when it came to taking on apprentices and personally hand-picked all those who fought by her side. It was, in the strangest sort of way, a great privilege to have been singled out, although Rowan's past experiences with Priestess's cruelty had taught her enough to be wary of the woman's attention.

But as in all things, she soon learned that the choice was not hers. It was only then that Rowan started to understand the full weight of her vows, the words she had let slip so carelessly from her lips during her ordination. She was bound to something much bigger and much, much powerful than she could ever be. And her sense of individualism, all the little idiosyncrasies that had once made her _her _were being swallowed up. Devoured. Drained away.

It was like dying, she realized. It was like being buried alive. Rowan, however, didn't complain. She accepted the honor when Priestess chose her. But somehow, she knew, _they_ had gotten to her. Somehow, _they_ had slithered into her thoughts and stolen away her own private treasure. And she would never be Priest's. She would never, ever be his…because she already belonged to them.

* * *

><p>Leaving the city for the first time in nearly seven years was more overwhelming than Rowan had ever imagined. Over the course of her stay in the Church's capital, she had become accustomed to the tight little spaces and cells and narrow corridors of her monastery home. Her eyes had grown used to the settled dark and her lungs no longer burned from what toxic fumes came wafting up through the grates in the street. She had learned not to miss the sun and the dry wind and the heat, because the damp was all permeating, a clammy veil that stuck to her body like a second skin.<p>

Although it was uncomfortable and far from ideal, life in the city promised a certain sort of security that assuaged Rowan's childhood terrors. There was safety in numbers and high walls and iron gates. And in her mind, the world outside, the great, war-torn barren Wastelands seemed like a threat, a very real, very terrifying wilderness that stretched on and on into the unfathomable.

Rowan wanted desperately to hold onto the last of her youth and when Priestess first took her down to the monastery's garage, assigning her a motorcycle that would carry her far from everything she found comforting, the first throes of sickly fear fell upon her.

She kept a stiff upper lip, though, as her brother had once taught her, and she pretended that she was happy with her deployment, if only because Priestess was towering over her with a intimidating glare. The next morning, the two of them left, driving straight out of the city gates into the vast, broken world. Rowan herself had had quite enough practice to know to operate her motorcycle with confidence. The vehicle had been designed and developed by the Church's engineers and unlike civilian motorcycles, her bike could reach top speeds and maneuver with only a slight shift of the rider's weight. Common slang had crudely dubbed them 'vamp herders', vehicles that could overtake a vampire pack and follow the oft times uncertain trajectory of the wily creatures.

And as much as Rowan hated to admit it, she did experience a surge of pure adrenalin when her motorcycle hit the open plains, the sand whipping past her goggles with a soft hiss. After riding for a few miles, she felt her determined fear begin to slip a notch and in its wake came the promise of wonder, a wonder that was only further enlivened when she first glimpsed the great stone statues that marked the end of Church lands.

Rowan couldn't help it, she threw her head back joyfully and gawked at the pillars of bleached rock, trying her best to make out the obscured faces of the stern bishops that lorded over plains.

But Priestess, as always, was sharp with her. Swerving her motorcycle right in front of her apprentice's bike, she brought Rowan up short.

"Focus!" she called over her shoulder.

Rowan braked hard to avoid the potential collision, but Priestess only sped off, her taillight an ugly blue beacon in the morning gloom. They rode non-stop that day, and Rowan knew that they were aiming for a settlement somewhere out by the Duncard Mines. The town had once been a thriving outpost, although more recently it had been turned into a military command center when a vampire hive had unexpectedly sprung up only a few miles to the east.

The post was far enough away from Cathedral City and distance itself was a vague concept in Rowan's mind. She wasn't sure exactly how long it would take them to get there, although judging from Priestess's subtle sense of urgency, she felt they wouldn't be wasting much time.

After driving all through the first day, Priestess surprised her by riding straight on through the night. The journey was a trial for Rowan, but her own endurance, as of yet untested, proved to be more than sufficient. Three days spent on her knees in the chapel had toughened her, and she was only slightly fatigued when they stopped to rest on the second day.

Priestess set up the portable solar panels used to charge their motorcycles on the edge of a low cliff and they spent the afternoon dozing on the sand, their heads pillowed on their leather saddlebags.

The silence between them, Rowan felt, was acceptable. Comfortable, even. It allowed her to exist in a world of her own, away from her hated mentor and the empty desert and somewhere that near him, very near him.

But Priestess wouldn't let Rowan be close to him, even in her mind. She simply wouldn't let her.

"You should realize," she said, her hands folded across her stomach as she lay on her back, staring at the sky which was a harsh, deep blue. "We Priests are just as nocturnal as vampires. Rest during the day when you can, fight at night. Do you understand me?"

Rowan turned onto her side, although she did not look directly at Priestess. It was terribly awkward, she felt, being alone with a woman who had done so much to make her young life difficult, who had pushed her beyond the limits of physical and spiritual strength until her soul was molded into something it never should have been. And although Rowan was still intimidated by her, she decided to keep her mouth shut, giving Priestess the cold shoulder she thought she deserved.

Amazingly, the woman smiled, her expression all-knowing, leading Rowan to feel wretchedly inferior. "If you think I'm going to apologize," she said, her jagged nostril dilating as she laughed a little, "you'd be wrong."

"Apologize?" Rowan asked. It took quite an effort to finally loosen her tongue. A part of her was keenly intent on holding a grudge against Priestess. And another, even larger part of her was still terrified of the woman who had so casually wielded cruelty against children, who had seen them starved and beaten and ripped away from their homes. It was disgusting and it was a sin and Rowan almost felt like she wanted to kill Priestess. She sometimes felt as though she wanted to kill her.

But Priestess held all the power yet. Her majesty was potent, as was her obvious disregard for those around her. She moved her head slightly, offering Rowan her crooked, half-smile that was ruined by the long scars that ran from her mouth to her temple. "I won't apologize for being hard on you," Priestess said, "because I was trying to prepare you. I was trying to…protect you. I was one of the first…the first of the Priests and I know things, I know…"

She trailed off, her fingers drumming against her abdomen, her eyes squinting as the wind threw dust and sand at them.

Rowan shifted, shielding her face with her hood. She felt awfully exposed, lying in the open world with only the sun above to guard her.

But if Priestess felt the same way, if she felt alone and abandoned and vulnerable, she never showed it. She never, ever showed it.

Her determination was appealing and the desert air had changed her, made her into a creature of pure efficiency and drive. And for an instant, Rowan almost envied her composure, her strength.

_Dear God_, she thought, _what must it be like to be so strong. So unrepentantly strong. _

Wonderful. Maybe it was wonderful.

"He talked about you a lot, you know" Priestess said at length.

Rowan blinked, wishing she had kept her goggles on. Her eyes were burning…from the sand, of course. It was just from the sand.

"Who?" she asked, playing dumb.

Buy Priestess knew that she was dragging her feet. She jerked her chin impatiently in Rowan's direction. "Priest," she said. "When he was my apprentice, he used to talk about you. He used to tell me how much you hated me. And he said he thought I was mad to take you on as another apprentice, that you would refuse to learn anything from me…anything at all. I wonder, could that possibly be true?"

Rowan tried not to show how stunned she was. She tried to repress her shock and the sudden, seething rage that made her mood dangerous. Priestess didn't have the right to talk about Priest. She didn't have the right to infect Rowan's thoughts of him with her bitter tongue.

It was disgusting and it was a sin and Rowan felt, not for the first time, that she wanted to kill Priestess. Because somehow, the woman was taking away the last thing that belonged to her, stealing it away to corrupt it…to corrupt him.

Grinding her teeth together, she chewed over so many unspoken curses and condemnations. But Rowan fought against her anger. It was a deadly sin, after all. It was dangerous. And she liked to think that she was better than such base reactions. Control was paramount and she wanted always to be in control. Priestess had taught her that, oddly enough, and Rowan would show her now that she had learned the lesson well.

She said nothing. She said absolutely nothing.

Priestess raised her eyebrows. Rowan wasn't sure, but she thought the woman looked impressed.

"I don't remember much of my life," she said, her lips spreading a little wider to reveal her teeth, "but I think I spent most of my infancy in an orphanage in one of the cities. My parents must have been killed in a vamp attack, although I once heard that I had a sister. It doesn't matter so much…really."

Rowan stared at the ground, trying her best to ignore the wistfulness that had suddenly risen up in Priestess's voice. She had heard of those orphanages before, institutions run by the Church that were meant to give homes to the orphans of vampire raids. They were miserable places, supposedly. Workhouses. Prisons for children. Rowan wondered if Priestess remembered how horrible the orphanage was, or if she even cared.

"It isn't what you think," Priestess said quickly, as if eager to quell her young apprentice's musings. "I loved the orphanage. An order of nuns oversaw it and they were wonderful. It was like…it was like having so many mothers. They were kind to me and the other children. They played games with us and told us stories and taught us songs. Not all religious songs either, some were secular…old folk tunes from their hometowns. It was a better childhood than most children with both parents have. It was happy. It was blessed…but the clergy came for me when I was about five. That's young, isn't it? That's very young."

When Priestess paused, Rowan felt a faint squirming in her gut, a hint of unease that made her almost sympathetic. Almost. But then she remembered that she had to hate this woman. She needed to hate her.

"They were only four of us in the beginning," Priestess continued. She tapped a finger anxiously on the buckle of her broad belt. "Casper was the eldest and then there was Luke. Margaret, although everyone called her Maggie, and myself. Sometimes, I think the clergy were frightened of us, even though we were only children. They said we had been touched by God. They said we were what they had been looking for. I don't know. It might be true. It might not be. But we were only children, just children. And I don't think they ever realized that we were more frightened than they were."

Rowan found herself grimacing as she listened to Priestess. There were echoes of her own childhood in the woman's words, hints of a past she thought she'd like to forget, although she was certain she'd never be able to. And Priestess herself didn't seem capable of letting go. She didn't even seem willing.

"In those days," she continued, "there was no protocol. No standards for training. We were made to learn everything all on our own. How to fight, how to pray, how to…exist.

No one prepared us, no one told us about what was to come. And then I was fifteen and being ordained. Fifteen. That's young. That's very young, isn't it?"

"Yes," Rowan said simply. "Yes."

Priestess sighed, the sound of the exhalation short, resigned. "But here I am now," she said. "Here I am. And I won't apologize for being hard on you, Rowan. I'll never apologize. If only someone had been hard on me. If only someone had cared enough to make me understand how terrible the war would be. I want you to learn something from me. I want you to understand, Rowan. Do you understand?"

Priestess was laying on her side now, looking Rowan directly in the face, her eyes searching. Rowan flinched under her gaze, furious that she had dared to use her name, furious that she had tried to strike some chord of friendship between them. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

She needed to hate Priestess.

"I don't," she said, her fingers curled against the dirt, the gritty sand coating her knuckles. "I really don't."

She expected Priestess to reproach her as she always did. She expected the anger and the rage and a righteous reckoning. But the punishment never came. It never came.

Priestess looked at her thoughtfully. "It's all right," she said and there was the most unlikely note of forgiveness, of compassion in her tight voice. "Someday you will, I promise. Someday."

* * *

><p>About halfway through the second night, Rowan got her very first taste of the war Priestess spoke of. As it turned out, they never made it to the command post out by the Duncard Mines. They had intended to pass by Jericho a few miles to the south of the town, but at the last minute, Priestess seemed to change her mind. Why, Rowan wasn't sure, but she later learned it had something to do with a set of vamp tracks Priestess had spotted during their drive.<p>

A little bit before dawn they rolled into Jericho, a large town that sat astride the new railway the Church had built to transport not only coal, but soldiers. When they crossed the town line, their sleek bikes creeping along the hard-packed dirt road, Rowan felt that something was wrong. Her senses, which had been subconsciously attuned over the years to detect the first whiff of trouble, were painfully alert. The air around Jericho had a wretchedly stale smell to it and the odor of smoke seeped into the cool, spring night.

Priestess stopped her bike on the town's main street, her lean legs straddling the vehicle as she stood in the seat.

In the distance, the warm flicker of fire accompanied a sudden volley of screams.

Priestess removed her goggles and hung them neatly on her motorcycle's handlebars. "Are you ready?" she asked, turning to Rowan.

But Rowan, for all her training, for all the hard years spent dedicated to the precise art of war, was still very naïve. "Ready for what?" she asked, her breathing shallow, her heart drumming out a warning in her chest.

Priestess smiled. And then she took off, disappearing down one of the small passages that branched off the main street, an aimless arrow shot by a blind archer. Rowan leapt from her own bike, her hands trembling and she heard the screams again, the long, gurgling wails of agony that provided a discordant symphony to the hellish night.

_What am I doing_, she asked herself, weakened by the utter panic that had suddenly invaded her tiny body and claimed it as its own. _God, oh God, what am I doing?_

Instinct told her what to do next and before her mind had registered another conscious thought, she was chasing after Priestess down a darkened alley, the wooden facades of the buildings pressing close on either side like the walls of a coffin. She coughed as she ran, assaulted by some sinister musk that was too familiar, the scent of blood and sweat and slick skin.

_Vampires_.

They were near by, they had to be. But where was Priestess? Rowan came to the end of the alley, spilling out onto a wider street. She was aware, at once, that her boots were dragging through some kind of sludge, the dirt of the avenue becoming suddenly muddy. Glancing down, Rowan saw that there was a red paste, some blood-soaked sand, stuck to her boots. The corpse of a man lay a few feet away. He was a mine worker and his clothes were stained with coal dust. The bite to his neck was so deep Rowan thought that his head must nearly be severed.

_Hungry_, she thought. They were very hungry.

Finding her knife by her side, she pulled it from its sheath and plunged further into the black, taking a second passage that she thought might lead her closer to the source of the disruption. The high screams and shattering cries were interrupted every now and then by elephantine roars. Rowan knew the sounds well enough, her ears readily picking up the eager, hunting cries of a vamp pack.

She rounded a corner, trying her best to forget the awkward thumping in her chest which threatened to cut off her breath. In the back of her mind, the prayer they had taught her began to repeat itself over and over again, a steadying chant that reminded her that she had been born for this, that she had been touched by the very hand of God…

_Strengthen me in this time of need. You are my refuge and my strength. I do not fear…_

"For you are with me," Rowan muttered, finishing the psalm in a warrior's voice that was still touched with the tenuous trembling of youth. She ducked through another passage, the wild chaos of the melee, the heat from the fire drawing ever closer. And then suddenly she was there, standing on the very cusp of the battle, on the edge of her destiny, which had somehow been inscribed into her soul.

There were a few of the townsfolk still left alive and the men wielded guns, their bulky weaponry firing off rounds indiscriminately that only occasionally found a home in a vampire's body. Rowan caught sight of the pack, a dozen or so vampires that were making very quick work of the men, armed or not.

Taking a second, she forced her mind to clear and surveyed the skirmish. Vampires were not berserkers. Their attacks were calculated, their movements surprisingly studied. Rowan knew that in order to get the best of them, in order to turn the tide of the battle, she would have to outthink them first. When it came down to it, strength was mostly inconsequential. Speed, on the other hand, mattered. A quick mind paired with a quick body.

Back in the city, Rowan had killed hive guardians three times her size, the creatures captured from liquidated hives and brought to the Church's training grounds so that young novices could come face to face with the monsters they would one day conquer in open war. Rowan had been fast then and she would be fast now. Fast. Fast. She would be fast.

Looking above her, she spotted an adult vampire, probably the alpha male of the herd, perched on a water tower. Systematically, he jumped from his seat to the balcony of a saloon and then down to the ground, emitting a faint chattering before he launched himself directly at one of the men. The victim didn't even have time to get a shot off before his jugular was ripped out and in seeing him fall bloodless to the ground, Rowan felt anger bloom inside her.

In that instant, in that mere flash of time, she found that her lingering doubts were erased. With the cold weight of her knife in her hand, she darted forward, the blade raised in a shining arc, a missile streaking through the night. It wouldn't be the first time she'd killed a vampire…and God, it definitely wouldn't be the last.

But at the final minute, just as her knife was about to dig into the beast's ribcage, the creature jerked backward, a bellowing scream parting its foul, fanged mouth.

Priestess had gotten there first and she thrust her knife into the vampire's spinal cord, pulling her blade down all the way until there was a long, leaking gash in the creature's back.

The vampire fell at her feet, a writhing mass of slippery grey flesh, its jaw grotesquely distended as it sucked in its dying breath. Priestess raised her leg and stomped down on the creature's skull. Rowan heard a bone-crunching crack and the vampire lay still.

She was surprised when disappointment stole away her precious adrenalin, the intoxicating thrill of promised battle. Rowan glared up at Priestess. She felt, for some indefinable reason, that the woman had taken something from her, something that she had wanted all along…

Something. Something. _Him…_

And Priestess knew it, because she smiled.

"Faster," she said, as the chaos of the night reigned all around them. "You have to be faster, little sister."

* * *

><p>Dawn put a definitive end to the assault on Jericho. Although Rowan and Priestess had themselves slaughtered a good many of the attacking vampires, the few that remained scampered off at first light, bounding into the open stretch of desert where there was no shelter from the sun. Priestess didn't think it was necessary to even give chase and instead, she and Rowan helped the townsfolk pick up what remained of their shattered lives. Each building had to be thoroughly searched and the streets carefully combed on the off-chance that one of the survivors had become infected. What they found, however, were only drained corpses, bodies that had fallen at odd angles, limbs akimbo, a man with his torso hanging over a fence post, a woman with the bodice of her dress ripped, blood on her breasts.<p>

Priestess ordered the corpses burned and a pyre was made in the center of the town. When it was all over, they had piled twenty bodies on the kindling and set it ablaze. The smoke that rose into the milky dawn sky was acrid, a reminder of mortality at its very worst.

Rowan sat on a curb at the edge of the town square, blocking her nostrils with her dark sleeve. There was a spattering of gore on her hands and she hadn't bothered to wipe them clean. A part of her soul had been effectively numbed and as she saw the grieving families clustered around the pyre, a man sobbing openly, a young boy holding his wooden toy gun, Rowan realized that what remained of her had died, had been blown away with the ashes of those poor people…those poor people…

_I don't understand_, she thought angrily, overwhelmed by the vision of unending, unrelenting violence. _I don't want to understand. _

Watching the people grouped around the pyre, she caught sight of a lonely woman a few years older than her, a young mother who was clutching a rag doll to her chest and weeping for the child she had lost the night before.

_There was no understanding this. _

Rowan was about to look away, was about to turn her eyes from the horrible aberration, when she noticed Priestess hovering just behind the mourning mother. After what appeared to be a moment's hesitation, she reached out one arm and pulled the woman close to her in an embrace that was full and real and born from pure sympathy, from the deep ache passed from one heart to another.

The mother cried on her shoulder and Priestess held her there, held her gently while Rowan watched. And they stood there together for a long time, until the fire had burned down and there were only bones and ashes and broken lives left.

She didn't understand. She didn't understand…

_Someday_, Rowan thought as she looked at the two grieving women. _Yes, someday.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Oh my goodness, this chapter turned out so much longer than I ever thought it would. And I know that there are only a few minor clues regarding the "mystery" in this installment, but I do promise that chapter sixteen should shine some very harsh light on the truth.

The next chapter is in the works and should be posted soon. Until then, take care and be well!


	16. Part XVI The Unthinkable

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part sixteen of "Cross". As promised, there's a nice, big juicy hint in this chapter regarding Priest's secret. ;)

As always, I'd like to thank all my fantastic readers and reviewers, **saichick**, **FireChildSlytherin5, Mss Heart of Swords01, Inwe[z]247 **and **Danae L. Black**. Also, I want to thank all the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. Your support and encouragement is greatly appreciated. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XVI The Unthinkable **

Priestess was surprised when Priest shook her awake for the second morning in a row. After overhearing his rather tense discussion with Seth the night before, she was convinced that she wouldn't be able to drift back into sleep, into a world where awareness and understanding gave way to the cool release of oblivion. Her mind had been too sharp for rest, punctured by shards of discontent and suspicion, that poison, that private insinuation of hidden darkness. Priestess had felt ill at ease. She had laid with her back to the firelight and listened to Priest's breathing, which wasn't quite even. She had listened to Seth, who had continued to scrape the blade of his knife on the ground. And she had listened to the wind, which offered her things…the truth not least among them.

Somehow, amidst the roiling pain in her gut and the fever of her worry, her body had lost itself, slipping off into vague dreams that were soothing. Priestess slept until after dawn, when she finally felt Priest's hand on her shoulder. Gently, he pulled her back into a waking world of bruised shadows and a virgin sun. His lips were folded into a sad crease when he looked down at her.

And in that moment, as she glanced up at him, as she counted the scars on his face and the lines on his brow and the years in his eyes, which had aged him, Priestess thought what she had never dared to think before.

_I love you. I love you no matter what you've done._

Priest responded with silence, although sometimes she wondered if he knew. He had to know…

Feigning a yawn, she stretched, crumbs of dust and sand falling from the folds of her coat as she climbed to her feet. The fire they had built the night before had burned down to cold ashes. It was if the dark itself had never existed, but came only as a nightmare, a fragment from a chaotic mind.

"You should have woken me," Priestess said, her voice not smooth, but strained. Her dry tongue felt rough against the roof of her mouth. "I would have taken a shift. It's not fair for you to keep watch all night."

"Never mind," Priest said, his shoulders lifting in an artless shrug. He was standing at an angle, his gaze directed away from her to where Seth stood. Their comrade had his back to the rising sun and the light colored his skin amber, his curly hair shining like jet. He was fastening his satchel to the side of his motorcycle and Priestess noticed that his movements, the tightening of the buckles, the pulling on the leather straps, were strained.

She blinked, feeling as though she had missed something.

"Did he tell you yet?" Seth asked, a jerk of his chin indicating annoyance.

Priestess was immediately alert, all the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end even though the dawn sun was blazing. The sweat on her forehead was uncomfortably chilled, sending cool rivulets down her spine. Perhaps, she mused, her playacting the night before hadn't been quite as convincing as she'd hoped it was. Perhaps Priest and Seth knew all along that she had, in fact, been an unwelcome eavesdropper. Perhaps _they_ knew that _she _knew. And perhaps the truth of the thing would terrible. Priestess was certain it would be terrible.

Her mind filled with the memory of their whispers. Nostrils dilating, she detected the phantom odor of smoke. But there was no fire. Not yet, anyway.

"What's going on?" she asked in turn, trying her best to sound brave and unconcerned and thoroughly indifferent. But her collar suddenly seemed too tight around her neck and she was aware of Priest's presence beside her, his tall frame casting a shadow over her small life.

Maybe, just maybe, it would be better to ask him outright.

Seth, for his part, was not subversive. He finished fastening his satchel, the palm of his hand slapping down on the seat of his motorcycle. "Priest has changed his mind," he said. "And I can't say that I'm happy with it."

"I never asked your opinion," Priest replied quickly, his words jumping all over Seth's.

"But it might do you good to listen," he answered with equal heat, "for once."

Priest shifted his weight, his pale eyebrows jumping up his forehead. Priestess recognized his anger, which was not fierce, but grudging, a sort of irritated reluctance that made him seem grim and stubborn.

And Seth looked displeased too, although he was naturally retiring. Keeping his eyes on his hands, he again fiddled with the buckles on his satchel, pulling at the bag to make sure it was still secure on his motorcycle.

"I'm not used to questioning you," he said, unwilling to look Priest in the eye, "but this seems too close to madness for my comfort. It's sloppy logic and you are _not_ stupid, Priest."

"I could benefit from an explanation," Priestess said at once, interrupting them both before they had a chance to continue their verbal melee.

Seth finally looked up and she noticed the hesitation in his gaze, the worried discomfort that made him seem like that young boy again ,with his jaw all shattered and bruised. He actually did rub his hand over his chin, his glove brushing over the stiff stubble that shadowed his cheeks. Seth's lips were lopsided, half-frowning, when he glanced at her.

"Priest wants us to go after the vamp pack," he said simply.

"They can't be far," Priest responded, his voice warm and eager, thirsting for the violence that had made hardened veterans of them all. "And you saw the one we killed last night, the young male. Very undernourished. The rest of the pack must be starving and they'll have to feed. The outposts around here are completely unprotected."

But in listening to him speak, Priestess thought she understood what Seth meant about sloppy logic. "There are only three of us," she told him, trying to be gentle. Her eyes found the dried bloodstain on his shoulder, the frayed edges of the gash in his coat. "And you're wounded."

"Which is what I told him," Seth said, seemingly pleased that he finally had a sensible ally. "In the old days, maybe, we could have done this. But not now. Not without the others."

"The others," Priestess said, feeling a hot glow infuse her cheeks. She dared to touch Priest on the arm, her fingertips plucking at the rough cloth of his coat. "That's our mission," she told him, hoping the steady rhythm of her words would remind him of himself and the sense he seemed to have lost in the dark reaches of the night. The wind rose, promising an early sandstorm and threw the ashes of the fire into the air. A great gust of them hit Priestess square in the face. She thought of Lent and of sacrifice.

_But I love you_, her mind whispered, finding no peace in his face, nor in his eyes, which held secrets. _I love you, even if you've sinned…even if you've done the unthinkable…_

But what was the unthinkable?

"Listen to her," Seth said curtly. He was standing in front of his motorcycle now, one hand outstretched in what could have been a desperate plea. Priestess knew that he did not want to displease Priest anymore than she did, but sense was sense and at that moment, Priest had entirely lost his.

"We stop by the old rendezvous point first," Seth continued, pulling his hood over his head to shield his face from the gritty blasts of wind. "If we find the others, then there is no reason why we shouldn't go after the vamp pack. But not now. There are so few of us."

"And you are wounded," Priestess echoed.

"And her transport is damaged," he added, pointing a thick finger at her motorcycle, the squat vehicle shining in the sunlight like a silver beetle.

Priest seemed to hesitate then, lost to their steady barrage of reason and persuasion. Priestess honestly thought that her influence would be enough to dissuade him from his fixed foolishness. It was so unlike him, she knew and the rarity of his obstinacy buried a tiny seed of fear within her.

But she stood in his shadow, beholden to him still. And she realized, with some creeping reluctance, that if Priest went after the vamp pack, then so would she.

Against reason. Against common sense. Against the most primal instinct of survival and self-preservation. It was a moment like the one on the train tracks, a holding of the breath and a stopping of the heart. A quiet acceptance of what had somehow become a part of her, of what had brought her to drive her bike straight into the train without a second thought.

Because she loved him, she had always loved him.

And Priestess was forgiving him even now, for this sin of ignorance and for all those he had committed in the past. The secret ones. The unthinkable. But what was the unthinkable?

"Please," the word worked its way past her lips and she touched him again, her hand on his still tender shoulder, her knuckles grazing the warm flesh of his neck. "Please," she begged, hoping he would do this one thing for her, this one thing…

Priest shuddered. She thought he looked like a lost boy standing there, a child who had been forsaken. Like her. Like all of them.

And she knew that he was going to give in. He was going to listen, if only because he loved her. Because he truly loved her.

Priest glanced at her hand on his shoulder. His eyes were sad again. "No," he said, his tone so utterly different from what it always was, the gruffness gone, the word soft and malleable, an echo of regret. "Seth," he said, raising his head to look at their brother, his expression devoid of even the slightest hint of anger. "Seth, you do what you think is best. It's all right. The rendezvous point is about half a day's ride from here. You should make it by noon if you leave now. I'm going after the pack. When I'm done, I'll look for you there, but I'm not asking you to wait for me if you can't."

Seth dropped his head, all the fight leaving him, his big body sagging against the chrome side of his motorcycle. He knew it was over. They both knew.

Priestess let her hand fall from Priest's shoulder. For some reason, she didn't exactly feel like touching him right then, but instead, let herself sink into the silence that swept over them. It was like a fog, the stillness, a heady mist that befuddled the mind and twisted the definite world into a mirage. Priestess could taste her own disappointment, as well as Seth's.

Something had happened here, not to them, but to him. _Priest_. He had slipped away into the night. He had replaced his heart and soul with a ghost. He had fallen away from them, into the dark. And neither of them could reach him, because he was already gone. So far gone.

Priestess closed her hands over her chest, feeling the exquisite loneliness wrap around her like a shroud. How had she have possibly let this happen?

Seth was the first to shake off the malaise of his disappointment and he reached out to her.

"Come with me to the rendezvous point," he said. "I could use your help."

But it was useless. It was hopeless. Priestess knew she couldn't go against Priest, even now. It was her sad fate, to always be the follower, offering up her soul and heart so freely, forfeiting what should have been hers to him.

And Priest might not even want it. She was beginning to think he did not even want it.

"You know I can't," she told Seth, reinforcing her solemn solitude, the bond she wanted to break free from but couldn't.

Seth understood. He was gracious and kind enough not to argue with her, a gentleman in a hard soldier's body. There was no reproach in his gaze when he looked at her, but an errant smile did tug at the corner of his chapped lips. "All right, then," he said. "I'll try to wait."

Climbing onto his bike, he initiated the start-up sequence and sped off into the dawn, a lonely pilgrim gone from their lives as quickly as he had come. There was no ceremony in his departure. No fleeting farewell or final embrace or sign that he would miss them at all. He knew better than to get bogged down in emotion and so did they.

But Priestess couldn't deny her disappointment, even though her mind easily adapted to lost hope. She was resigned, but not prone to despair. Her training had taught her to separate her heart and mind, to bear the burden that had been set upon her shoulders with indifference, to accept that life, _her_ life, was not fair, nor would it ever be.

And she still had Priest, at least. That made all the difference.

"We won't find the pack now with the sun up," she told him, glancing at the vibrant streaks of molten gold that trailed over the eastern sky. The sun, though their closest ally in the war against vampires, was never forgiving, even at dawn.

"It doesn't matter," Priest replied, his manner brusque. Striding over to his own motorcycle, he dusted some of the lingering sand off the seat with a quick swipe of his hand. "You're not going with me."

"What?" She took a step towards him, her entire body jolting, electric fear charging through her veins.

Priest looked at her, his brows heavy over his eyes as he squinted against the light. "Seth's right," he explained. "Your bike is damaged. There's no way you'll be able to keep up."

"I can ride on yours," Priestess said weakly.

He shook his head. "You'll only slow me down. We need two vehicles."

"Are you going to leave me here?" she asked incredulously. The Wastelands lay around her, hot and dry, a leathery scar on the wounded flesh of the earth.

Priest shook his head. "There's an outpost. It's not far. You can have your bike repaired there. I'll take my time in tracking the pack. We'll meet up as soon as we can."

Priestess felt her legs weaken. This was not a plan, she realized, but a ploy, a tactic meant to push her away, to drive her off into the inhospitable reaches of the world while he went his own way.

He didn't want to be with her. That much was clear. He didn't want…he didn't want her…

Priestess immediately rejected the treacherous instinct that had somehow reduced her to an idealistic romantic. She was being unfair. She was judging what couldn't be judged, a simple touch of the lips, the hotness of his breath on her cheek, her own desire, which was dangerous. And she was wrong, so very wrong.

Shakily, she walked over to her damaged bike and leaned against the seat, hoping to disguise her sudden frailty. Her loyalty, her unwavering faith and devotion, had somehow been unsettled. The pillars shifted, fell, crashed into one another. Her heart broke and then broke again, the dust of it rising within her, reminding her of ash, reminding her of Lent and of sacrifice.

But this wasn't a sacrifice. This was a rejection, plain and cold and undisguised. This was a new sin, a fresh offense. This was the unthinkable.

_Stiff upper lip, girl. You keep a stiff upper lip._

"All right," she said, her voice made rusty by her unshed tears. Behind her, she heard Priest starting up his motorcycle.

"You'll look for me?" he asked over the whirring hum of his bike's engine. "You'll find me again?"

Priestess wasn't sure, but she thought he was trying to assuage his own guilt, to steady that wretched revulsion she herself felt. And it sickened her.

"All right," she repeated, letting him only see her back, because her face was shattered and she was about to cry.

_Stiff upper lip. Keep a stiff upper lip._

"I'll see you soon," Priest told her. "Be careful."

His retreat was hasty, a dog running away with its tail stuck between trembling legs. When the great noise of his bike, the grind of the tires on the sand, had faded somewhere into the distance, Priestess turned around and searched from him. He was a speck of black, insignificant, a meaningless dot on the faded horizon. A mirage.

"I love you," she said, the words like wisps, the stuff of dreams and wishes that were already dead.

If she had been a weaker woman, she might have cried then. But her brother had taught her better. Sage had taught her well.

_Keep a stiff upper lip, girl_, he'd say and she'd listened. Priestess always listened.

* * *

><p>Priestess remembered the way to the outpost well enough. She had been there a few times before, during the war about a year before they were sent to infiltrate Sola Mira. Trapped between two hives, the outpost was itself a constant battle zone, a town that had been drained many times over until it was hollow, a shell of humanity filled with empty buildings and graves and bone fragments that could sometimes be found packed into the sand.<p>

For Priestess, the town was haunted by death, not only because of the broken remains of lost life, but because it was last place she had seen the red-haired Priestess alive. At the time, of course, she had still hated the woman, even though she was the clergy's most celebrated general, a saint surely in the making. It was only when she was martyred that Priestess found some grudging respect for her old mentor. And after many years of self-doubt and dishonor and countless indignities, she found that could look back on the woman and see her as a symbol, a faded reminder of greatness past, when the world had belonged to the Priests and they had all been loved.

No more, of course. Not anymore.

By the time Priestess rolled into the outpost, her bike sputtering and choking with each turn of its dented front wheel, the morning shadows had shortened. Looking up at the sun, she guessed it to be an hour or so before noon. Seth, perhaps, had already reached the old rendezvous point and she couldn't help but wonder what he might find there.

The others, maybe. Or nothing at all.

She was terribly frightened that he would find nothing, that fate would turn against them and they truly would be the last of the Priests. And would it be worse, she thought, to be on the verge of extinction? Would it be worse to be remembered than to actually live?

Priestess stepped off her bike, switching off the laboring engine as she walked the vehicle down the main thoroughfare of the outpost. It was windswept, littered with small sand dunes and caved in buildings and smashed windows that opened like black sores in the sides of abandoned houses. There was, however, a vague hint of life about the place. Smoke rose in the distance, uncurling its grey fingers in the sky. The blades of a working windmill cut through the air, bringing the smell of cooking meat to her nose. There were people here yet, she knew and the thought saddened her. People clinging to the last, frayed edges of life. People who had been forsaken like her. People who probably didn't know enough to hope. People who were probably better off as a memory, a smudge on the subconscious, instead of living. It was strange, Priestess thought, how death could be more glorious than survival.

As she passed by the outpost's old armory, her mind surged, bringing up images she had buried along with all other remembrances, the inconsequential recollections that she should have discarded, but had held onto for so many years.

The red-haired Priestess had kept her headquarters in the room above the armory. It was their command center, a place of bustling activity and martial efficiency. It had been in that room, in that tiny square space with its long table and maps and mismatched chairs, that she had last seen the woman. And she had hated her then and the memory of that hate lingered now, stale, but powerful, like the scent of some old, familiar perfume.

She felt ashamed of thinking so poorly of her, though, and she allowed her remembrances to be softened with age, and what she hoped was wisdom. Glancing up at the second storey of the armory, Priestess said a quiet prayer for the woman. She had been brave, if nothing else. And strong. So unrepentantly strong.

A few days after she had last seen her, the red-haired Priestess had been deployed separately with Priest, first to Jericho and then Augustine.

Priestess remembered being jealous at the time, hearing bits of rumor, thinking of them together while she was all alone. She had counted the days until their return, hoping for a reunion that never came. The Church ended up extending Priest's deployment with the red-haired Priestess and the two of them spent nearly a year together working reconnaissance in Sola Mira. It wasn't until nine months later that the news broke. Priestess was dead, killed at the hive. Priest had assumed leadership of the clergy. And the Church had a new martyr, one that they praised gladly in death more than they ever had in life.

Priestess dropped her gaze, looking away from the armory. No one really knew what had happened at the hive that day and Priest himself didn't like to talk about it…except for the night before, when Seth had asked so many questions. Uncomfortable questions.

Priestess stared at her hands curled over the handles of her bike. _The unthinkable_, she mused. Perhaps she already knew what it was. Perhaps she had known all along.

_Nine months…_

The thought didn't have time to settle in her mind, to puncture her steadfast sanity with the insane. Someone was walking up behind her. _Priest_, she hoped, she prayed. _It had to be Priest._

But it wasn't. It wasn't him. The voice that spoke was lazy, clotted with blood and blasphemy. And Priestess knew, she knew for certain that it was better for some to be remembered than to actually live. It would have been better for him.

"Have you come looking for answers here?" he asked, offering her a laugh that was rude but somehow tinged with a scholar's smugness.

Priestess turned slowly and she saw his eyes. They weren't green anymore. "Marcus," she said.

He smiled when he raised his hand and brought it straight down over her head.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>A couple of surprises in this chapter. I do hope they were satisfactory. ;)

Thanks so much for reading! If you happen to have a free moment, please review. Feedback always makes me jump for joy. Chapter seventeen is in the works and should be posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well!


	17. Part 17 The Frontier

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part 17 of "Cross". Before we begin, I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those who reviewed, **saichick, Inwe[z]247, Mss Heart Of Swords01, FireChildSlytherin5, Lady Krystalyn, aprilrunrunrun, Musik Drache, Lystan, **and **Jag**. Also, I would like to thank all those readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. Your encouragement and support is truly appreciated. Thanks, guys! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 17 The Frontier **

It took some considerable effort for Rowan to drag herself up the staircase to the top floor of the armory. The muscles in her thighs bunched mercilessly, sending spasms of shocking pain through her hips and into her back. She clenched her hand over the banister and fought against each relentless ache, putting one foot in front of the other until the steps were conquered and she stood outside the clergy's headquarters. Rowan gave herself a minute to catch her breath before she went inside. Resting her forehead on the metal door, she pulled some oxygen into her lungs and spat it out with a sigh. There were grains of sand, she felt, buried beneath her eyelids and whenever she blinked, the world before her disappeared, fading into a tunnel of hazy, tired grey.

It had been a long night. A very, very long night.

Although she had only been deployed to the front lines for two years, the first as an apprentice, the second as a fully-fledged Priest, Rowan felt as though her physical body had jumped ahead in time, aging in leaps and bounds until she was already old. Her spiritual well-being was another matter entirely, her young soul having suffered irreparable damage as her life disintegrated around her, constantly changing, shifting, growing. Existence was chaotic. She lived from breath to breath, relying on each heartbeat that thundered in her breast, fearing the darkness and yet accepting it as yet another facet of her being. It was war. It was death. It was fangs and blood. And yet, it wasn't terrible, it wasn't the creeping horror that stalked her worst nightmares. But it was fulfillment, yes. It was true fulfillment.

It was difficult to accept, but Rowan knew, somehow, that she was content now. Her happiness itself was different than what she had experienced in childhood, those small, prized moments of joy. Adulthood had seen her adopt a sort of resigned satisfaction and purpose. She was yearning and she was reaching and she was succeeding. She was fighting, because that was what she had been meant to do, what God had chosen for her.

And it was enough to make Rowan content. Not happy. But she thought now, at last, she could be content.

Lifting her head off the cool metal, she turned the heavy knob and opened the creaking door. To her immediate relief, she noticed that the square room appeared to be empty. It was the hour before dawn, a time when shifts changed and Priests either reported for duty or crawled back to their lodgings for rest. Rowan was on the downside of her shift, having finished another night on the borders of the outpost, repelling a large hoard of all too hungry vampires.

Things were almost never quiet at that particular settlement, which had the unfortunate distinction of being built between two large, thriving hives. Vampire attacks were commonplace and the clergy had shifted their attention to that front, setting up a substantial military installment at the besieged outpost. The campaign that followed, unfolding over the course of the several months Rowan had been stationed there, was nothing short of a stalemate. The vampires harassed the outpost, the clergy drove them back. The clergy attacked the colonies and were ripped to shreds by scores of hive guardians. And although Rowan still had faith in the Church and her own soldier's prowess, she was beginning to feel as though the war might _never_ end. At least, perhaps, not in her lifetime.

Trudging inside the room, she threw the door closed behind her, looking for a convenient chair to sink into. What she found, however, was Priest, sitting with his back to the far wall, his boots thrown up carelessly on the long table that was always littered with maps and written orders and the occasional Bible. Rowan felt the aches in her legs and her back and her heart begin to lessen.

_This_, she admitted to herself, _yes, this is why I'm content. _

"I'm sorry," she said, pretending to speak to the sour, sweat-soaked air and not to him, "but I wanted to be alone."

Priest yawned and rubbed his hand briskly over his close-cropped hair. "Still alive?" he asked.

Rowan grinned. Gallows humor. She loved it. "I don't think the vampires want me," she said, easing herself over to him. There was a free chair by his right elbow, a rickety, low-backed seat, but she took it anyway. "I heard once that Priests taste bad."

"All that holy water," Priest replied. A rare laugh edged his tone and the lines around his mouth were loose and soft. But then his face straightened, his eyes taking on a hard, cold glint that brought Rowan crashing down to earth with all the speed of a falling star. "I heard your detachment had a difficult night," he said, his teeth pulling over his lower lip. "Were there any causalities?"

_Causalities_. Rowan hated the word. It never failed to send a shiver dancing along her spine. _Causalities. Death. Loss._

"Thomas was wounded," she said steadily, her mind flashing with memories of blood and veiled starlight and Thomas's enraged howl when one of the hive guardian's pinned him to the ground. "Not bad," she added, trying to reassure herself more than Priest. "His face will never be the same, though."

_Causalities. Torn flesh. Another scar…_

"Thomas," Priest lisped the name. Rowan saw him fingering the steel rosary beads that hung from his belt.

She gave him a moment of quiet, let him say his prayer. The silence between them was soft, hallowed, a thing of precious delicacy in a world that had been overtaken by blunt edges and sharpness. Even the dawn light which throbbed against the window panes was heartless, causing Rowan to press her calloused fingertips to her ribcage.

Sometimes, she needed to remind herself that she was alive.

Her breathing was shallow, however, whenever she sat by him. And to her, every stolen second was akin to a miracle. Her journey was coming full circle, ending where it had began, with him…always with him.

During her year spent as an apprentice, Rowan had counted herself fortunate if she saw Priest once a month and their meetings were always in passing. She would spy him from afar, on the opposite side of the chapel, in a far corner of a mess hall, somewhere in the distance, beyond her reach. It was the worst kind of torment. It was a dashed hope and a blighted promise. It was a private desire denied, again and again and again.

Rowan suffered in his absence, although she was careful not to let it show. The year of her apprenticeshi had passed in silent privation and day by day, she had felt her willpower grow. She became stronger. She missed Priest but she maintained her independence. And when the year was over and Rowan learned that both she and her old friend had been deployed to the same outpost, their reunion was sweetened by her own sense of gratitude. They had been apart once, but now they were joined and that alone was enough to secure her peace of mind.

It was the togetherness, she decided, that mattered the most, even when it came at the high price of war and bloodshed. Rowan thought she could cope with the violence, she thought she could even understand it _through_ him. The acceptance had come slowly to her. It had been built up over years and years of childish devotion, that devotion finally hardening into love, setting itself in stone. And Rowan knew then, knew in everyway, that Priest would define her life. Her soul, her spirit would be eclipsed in favor of his, her heart only borrowed, because it truly belonged to him.

Even if he didn't want it. Even if he never, ever took it…

Resolved in her understanding, Rowan sat next to him, enjoying his presence, savoring the sound of his murmured prayers and the way his fingers moved deftly over his rosary beads. She watched the dust motes settle in the morning sunlight and felt the world breathe around her. The night was over. It was finally over.

Priest made the sign of the cross, the beads clicking in his hand. He exhaled once and glanced at Rowan out of the corner of his eye.

For an instant, she thought she saw something familiar in his gaze, something she had found reflected in her own eyes for so many, many years.

_I wonder_, she asked herself, _I wonder if he ever could, if he could ever…_

_Love me._

And her instinct, her trusted intuition rose up fiercely within her, shouting in a chorus of ringing bells and poetry and soft-spoken psalms. Her heart was beating, full and free and her mood turned dangerous, turned wild, because she was going to ask him. While they sat there together, in that cramped room above the armory, in a war-torn, bloodied outpost. She was going to ask Priest.

_Do you love me? Could you ever love me?_

The words were on her lips, succulent with the taste of hope. Rowan abandoned herself to youth and folly. She allowed herself to forget that he had a wife and a daughter. She ignored that archaic, stale vow of celibacy and the meaningless implications of what she had sworn so mindlessly. It didn't matter, of course. It didn't matter now when she felt she knew what his answer would be already.

_I love you. I can love you._

"Priest," she said, her hand hovering nervously over his. "Priest, I want to know-"

It was the footsteps on the stairs that saved them both. And it could have been God's heavy tread, for all Rowan knew. The sound was ponderous, boots scraping against wood, a hand slapping down impatiently on the banister. The echo of the noise resounded within her soul and Rowan retreated inside herself. For some strange reason, she felt damned, thrown into the fires, torn between the jaws of fate.

She glanced quickly at Priest and wondered if he felt the same.

_Probably not, _skepticism told her. _He'll never feel the same._

The footsteps slowed when the person reached the top of the stairs and the door banged open, bringing with it a blast of wind that was only slightly damp.

Priestess stepped over the threshold. She looked tired.

The air fled the room, leaving the space tight and nervous and laced with the forbidden. Rowan's stomach knotted, slamming into her lungs until she thought she wouldn't be able to draw breath. She sat up straight in her chair. Priest dropped his legs off the table. They were both quiet.

Priestess spared them a single glance, her eyes dull and dark, marred with bruised stains the color of plums. She circled the room once, no longer the predator on the prowl, her imposing figure reduced by strain and doubt and what Rowan felt might be uncertainty. For an instant, only an instant, the woman looked pathetic.

And Rowan herself wasn't certain how anyone in Priestess's position could seem so down-trodden. She was, apparently, the Church's greatest asset. She had a list of solid victories attached to her name and was currently orchestrating the complicated campaigns of the war with undeniable competency. And most importantly, she was keeping her soldiers alive, maintaining her force of Priests even when the war itself had slowed to a dreadful stalemate.

The clergy respected her, loved her, even, and Rowan had cause to be jealous, especially when she realized that she herself owed a debt of gratitude to the woman who had indeed prepared for all the trials of her wretched life. But still, a part of her was glad to see that mortality was taking its toll on Priestess. She was pleased to see that the woman's cruelty and power were not enough to sustain her, that she was just as fallible as any human, just as _weak_.

_Weak._

Priestess rounded the table, her arms hanging awkwardly from her tense shoulders. She sniffed once and rubbed the back of her hand along her nose. "I heard," she said, "Thomas-"

"The field surgeon said he'll live," Rowan replied, knowing enough to get to her feet when she addressed her superior, the movement compulsive, tainted with her own volatile apprehension. "He wasn't infected, either."

"Very fortunate," Priest said, rising as well. "We must thank God."

Priestess exhaled sharply through her scarred nose and rolled her tongue along her teeth. "Don't congratulate yourself," she told Rowan with a quick jerk of her chin. "Any night when you have a casualty is not a good night. The loss is unacceptable. No more causalities, understood? I said _no more_."

Rowan bristled, instantly feeling demeaned. She hoped that Priestess knew that she couldn't have helped what had happened to Thomas, but in the end, it didn't matter. Priestess doled out guilt just as readily as she passed out their daily orders.

"I understand," Rowan said, even though she was certain she never would.

Priestess didn't look satisfied. She paced. She brushed her calloused fingertips along the tabletop, disturbing her papers and the scattered maps. She looked at Priest and her gaze was deep, determined.

It was as if, Rowan thought, something was passing between them. Unspoken. A thought. An _insinuation._

Fear gnawed at her self-resolve and she suddenly felt as though she shouldn't be there. She was intruding. She had stumbled upon a scene that wasn't meant for her eyes, like when she had glimpsed two people cornered in a corridor, whispering, almost touching…_touching._

But the moment passed. Priestess resumed her pacing, her long braid swinging down her back as she walked, the plait no longer neat, but frayed. "Why is it, I wonder," she said, "that when I come looking for either of you, I invariably find you both in each other's company. Why is that?"

Rowan opened her mouth to respond, but was immediately silenced.

"Do not answer the question," Priestess snapped. "I didn't ask for answer, did I?"

Rowan said nothing, baffled by the woman's unusual intemperance. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

"It is convenient," Priestess continued, her tone low, dark, "that you are both together, now. Very convenient."

Rowan took a step back from her chair. She suddenly realized that her legs had begun to shake and she mentally chided herself for her weakness. After all these years, Priestess still made her nervous, still made her frightened. After all these years.

Carefully, she glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw Priest. His expression was flat, detached. His hands hung by his sides, unclenched. Rowan envied his ease. And she wondered, privately, why he too wasn't frightened.

Perhaps it was because he was much braver than her. Or perhaps it was because, because…

Rowan swallowed. Her heart, it seemed, had nearly stopped beating.

Priestess leaned on the table, her hands braced on the edge. She stared at them both and their was some sense of satisfaction in her gaze that made her look dangerous.

"I received a report this morning from Augustine," she said. "The town is quite populous, which is a draw for feeding vampire packs. Lately, a few people have gone missing, picked off on the fringes of the outpost. Their bodies occasionally turn up a few days later, drained…or they don't turn up at all. There has been no full scale raid on Augustine, but we know enough about vampire behavior to assume that they're only scouting the town. If we don't send someone over there soon, I am almost certain they will be overrun and we'll have lost another outpost."

_And human lives_, Rowan thought. She remembered the first raid she had witnessed at Jericho two years ago, the bodies piled on the pyre, the smoke. Men, women, children…it was a massacre.

Priestess raised her chin, directing her attention at Priest. "When the clergy found you,"

she said, "you were living in Augustine with your family, yes?"

Priest's brows jumped together. One of his hands curled into a fist. His knuckles turned white, clashing with the blotchy redness that shaded his cheeks. "Yes."

And oh, so much was relayed with that single word, the sentiment, the severed ties, the memory of an abandoned wife and daughter. But Priest bore the pain with his usual determined grace. He dropped his head and looked at his boots.

Priestess flushed. She didn't appear exactly triumphant, but pleased. With herself, maybe. Or with him. "Convenient," she echoed. "We leave before dark." She turned to go.

But Rowan was bewildered. The conversation had slipped by her somehow, had escaped her careful notice. Priest understood and so did Priestess, but she herself was lost. Hating to admit her confusion, she followed the woman to the door, ceding some of her pride in favor of insight.

"Wait," she said, "We are being deployed to Augustine together?"

Priest drew in his breath. Priestess turned on her heel, her annoyance piqued.

"No," she said. "I am going. Priest is going. You will stay behind. We're stretched thin enough at this outpost, especially with Thomas wounded."

Rowan pressed her hand to her stomach. She felt as though she had been pummeled half to death. "Oh God," she muttered.

Priestess made a quiet noise, her ugly, jagged nostril dilating as she smiled a little. "This is simple," she said. "This shouldn't be a surprise. Remember your vow, Rowan."

_Remember your vow_. Rowan absolutely despised the phrase. It was an admonition laced with guilt, meant only to stain the soul with blame and regret. Rowan thought she remembered her vow, remembered it through two years of blood and death and a war that would not end, that would never end.

She remembered her vow. She remembered it in the way she could still see the look on her mother's face when the clergy took her from her home. She remembered it in the way she sometimes heard Sage's voice, whispering to her in the night. She remembered, she remembered well.

Glancing at Priestess, she felt something new rise in her, the heady taint of rebellion, of revolution. And it was easy to oppose someone who was so pathetic. It wasn't difficult at all.

"You are being cruel," she said, allowing unlikely venom to slip into her words. "You are separating us only because you can."

"Don't," Priest began, but Priestess waved her hand and he fell silent.

"This is unacceptable," she said, looking between them, her gaze poisoned with all her sordid insinuations, the one's Rowan herself had held secret in her heart. "Close," Priestess muttered. "You are _too_ close with him."

But Rowan didn't care. She wanted to be close to him. It was her right, her gift, her one, saving grace.

And then it dawned her. She finally understood. God, oh God, finally.

"You're jealous," Rowan said.

Priestess slapped her. It was a light touch of the hand, meant more to shame than to wound. Rowan turned her head to the side and brazenly offered her other cheek.

"That was for your insolence," Priestess said.

But Rowan was enraged. She felt ready to charge at her, to gore her and spear her and force upon her the same cruelty she had so casually wielded. "I hope you burn," Rowan told her, emboldened by the power of her wild, wild words. "I hope you burn and rot in Hell."

Priestess's eyes went wide and Rowan felt that she probably would have hurt her badly then, would have delivered a blow that was meant to wound and not to shame, but Priest stopped her. He was the sacrificial lamb, the offering, the impenetrable shield between them.

"I am going with her, Rowan," he said, his tone carrying surprising authority.

And Rowan was taken aback, not because he was giving in, but because he had used her name. For the first time…it was the first time.

Why did such a blessing have to come at that a moment? It was a reward, she felt, but it was also a condemnation.

And they were all damned, perhaps. Damned.

But Priestess didn't realize it. Her grin was sad, a manifestation of her own weakness even though she had won. "This is for your own good, little sister," she told her. "I promise."

Rowan said nothing. She waited until the woman was almost out the door, Priest trailing hopelessly in her wake, before she finally spoke.

"I hate you," she told Priestess. It was the last thing Rowan ever said to her.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! If you have some free time, please leave a review. Feedback always makes my day.

Just a side note, I do intend to raise the rating of this story to M within the next chapter or so to cover some upcoming adult situations. However, the mature material will certainly not be graphic or overly gratuitous. ^_^

Part eighteen is in the works and should be posted in ten days. Until then, take care and be well!


	18. Part XVIII Janus

**Author's Note: **You know, I actually had a lot of fun writing Black Hat in this chapter. I didn't think I would, since his character didn't stick out to me while watching the movie, but he really is an interesting guy…in a scary, repulsive sort of way, haha.

As always, I'd like to start off by thanking all my awesome readers and reviewers, **FireChildSlytherin5, saichick, Lonely Bleeding Liar, TrinideanFan, aprilrunrunrun, Dr E Mode, MssHeart Of Swords01 **and **LadyKrystalyn. **Also, I would like to sincerely thank all the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. The support I've received for this fic has been so inspiring. Thank you! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XVIII Janus **

Water dripped onto her head. The stream was steady, a pitter-patter of chilled liquid on her skull, an echo of cold sweat trailing down her temple. Priestess blinked. The air around her was damp, a powerful contrast to the wretched heat of the Wastelands. It took her mind a moment to register the difference in temperature Damp. Damp. Damp like a crypt. And decay, there was decay also. That rotten stench. That moldy odor of mortality. Priestess felt it seep into her lungs when she tried to take a deep breath. Darkness pressed against her and when she opened her eyes, she was blind, seeing only visions of vague black and shadow. Impenetrable gloom.

She rubbed her eyes once, her fingers slick with mud, and groaned. There was a definite throb in the right side of her head and it pulsed alongside her heartbeat.

"God," she muttered, exhaustion making her voice tremble. "God."

"Yes…_God_."

It was perhaps the most surreal moment in Priestess's life. Immediately alert, her sedated grogginess giving way in favor of vigilance, she leapt to her feet and tilted her head back as far as it would go. Dizziness came, seductive with the promise of oblivion, but she fought against it. A shaft of muted light fell from a hole about ten feet above her, the beam bisected by the thick slats of an iron grate.

Priestess squinted, ignoring the twinge between her eyes. There was figure just beyond the grate. _God_, she thought wildly. _God…._

"This used to be a drainage ditch," he said, his words like rolling thunder, insistent and clamoring with bravado. "I apologize for the smell."

And unknowingly, some secret tension left Priestess's body, if only because familiarity had taken its place. She wasn't frightened. How could she ever be frightened of him?

The green-eyed boy. Yes, she remembered that he had green eyes…once.

"Marcus," Priestess said.

She could almost hear the smile in his voice when he spoke next. "It's good to see you, Rowan," he replied. "You haven't changed at all."

Priestess sighed. A trickle of water hit her left shoulder, leaving a thumb-sized stain on her coat. "I don't think it's fair," she told him, "to be kept in the dark like this. Let me see you, Marcus. It has been a while, after all."

He laughed, the sound rising from somewhere deep in the back of his throat, the growl of a large, hungry predator. "Curiosity is dangerous," he said.

"Do you honestly think that I'm scared?" she asked.

Silence followed, punctured only by the incessant pinging of water droplets on stone. Priestess counted her breaths, inhaling through her mouth to avoid the foul stench. She waited patiently.

Finally, after what seemed like several long minutes, Marcus moved, the heavy folds of his coat brushing against the grate. "All right," he said. A light bloomed, then swelled. Marcus had struck a match. After a moment of rummaging, he produced a lantern and set it squarely over the grate.

"Do you like what you see?" he asked, his amusement wry and nearly self-deprecating.

Priestess perched her hands on her hips, her eyes straining as she tried to adjust to the rude invasion of light.

Marcus maneuvered the lantern, placing it behind him so that it cast an appropriate shadow. His face, she saw, was mutilated, half-burned, flesh peeling away from bone, sinew showing, eyelids swollen. It was like a mask cut in half and she tried to disguise her own astonishment as she looked at him. The right side of his face was burned away, but the left, the left was fine.

"Priest said the explosion wouldn't kill you," she muttered, her voice gripped with frank awe. "But your wounds-"

"A passing hindrance," Marcus said. The lantern light had colored his eyes an uncertain yellow. "It's evolution at its absolute best."

She lowered her chin, turning her head to the side to give him a full view of her expression, which was skeptical. "I don't understand."

Priest, of course, had told her something of Marcus's transformation. He was an altogether new breed of evil, a hybrid between two disparate species. The Queen had birthed him from her own blood, but still, there remained something of humanity in him, a trace of the past that possibly offered redemption. And despite it all, Priestess herself wasn't a cynic. She believed in forgiveness.

Perhaps Marcus sensed her sympathy, for he withdrew, pulling back into the shadows until she could only catch a faint glint from his luminescent eyes. _How strange_, she thought, _to see a vampire with eyes._

"Vampires feed on humans for sustenance, for survival," he said and there was a note of pride in his words, "but I feed only to strengthen myself. You may have noticed the clouds of smoke on your way into town. The few settlers, I'm afraid, we're not enough to make me presentable. But I was respectful. I burned their bodies when I was finished with them. That's how the Church taught us to handle the victims of vampire attack, isn't it?"

"That's blasphemy," Priestess said, although she was unable to be angry at him. Marcus, in a way, had always been misguided.

"So many things are blasphemous," he replied. His fingers rubbed over the slats, sending awkward shadows down into her cell. "I find your belief in the Church blasphemous, as a matter of fact. But do _you _still believe after everything they did to us? Do _you_ still have faith?"

Priestess did not hesitate. "I do," she said, pleased at how strong the echo of her voice was as it spiraled up towards him.

"You place your trust the Church?" Marcus sounded slightly incredulous.

She despised his scorn. "No," she replied, her knuckles digging into her hips. "I have faith in God."

There was a moment's hesitance on his part, as if he did not dare to mock God so openly. His sudden reticence gave her reason to hope, lighting a faint glimmer in her heart, which had previously been dark. Priestess realized, of course, that her circumstances were far from ideal. In fact, they were downright dangerous. But that did not mean she had to be afraid. And Marcus, yes, that didn't mean that Marcus had to be damned…yet.

"Do you have faith in God still?" she asked, imagining how naïve she must seem to him.

Marcus shifted, his boots scraping obnoxiously over the grate. The shadows lengthened when he finally set the lantern off to the side and leered down at her. Priestess stared up at him and her heart fell a little, just a little, when she saw his teeth.

Fangs. He had fangs now.

Sorrow, laced with the most sincere sympathy, rose up within her. Standing there in the dark, alone, watched, she wondered what it must have been like for him back in Sola Mira as the Queen squatted over his bleeding body and forced her poison into his mouth.

That, she decided, yes, _that_ was blasphemy.

"God," Marcus said, his fingers curling over the iron slats. "I did not bring you here to discuss God, Rowan. There are other things of greater importance we must attend to."

"Nothing is more important than God," she countered. "No one."

When he laughed this time, Priestess knew he was mocking her.

"No?" he asked. "Not even Priest?"

"Priest?" For the first time, fear hearkened to her.

"Yes, Priest." The drawl was back in Marcus's voice. He drummed his fingers on the iron, the cadence uneven, playful almost. "He is more treacherous than God…and that truly is saying something."

Priestess swallowed and dropped her eyes. Mud caked her boots, creating an ugly sheen on the leather. The water stain on the shoulder of her coat had grown now into a sizable patch. The steady drip, drip, drip of the stream overhead continued.

"What does it matter?" she asked, trying to hide the curiosity in her tone. "You have me here, not Priest. Why do you-"

"Rowan," he hushed. "Listen. Listen, listen, _listen_. There is that noise inside you, that pulse of life. Do you realize that when I mentioned Priest's name, your heart skipped a beat?"

A vicious flush colored her cheeks. Priestess swallowed again. _Predator_, she thought again. Of course he could hear her heart beating. Of course he could listen to the measured hum of the blood in her veins.

How treacherous her own body was, Priestess realized, selling her secrets to the devil. But she stared at him boldly, nonetheless. She met his gaze and held it. There was nothing to be frightened of, after all. Not even the dark.

"You know," Marcus said, "I never thought you'd be the one I'd find here. I was convinced, absolutely _convinced_ that Priest himself would come. This place means something to him and if he were ever to ask for forgiveness, I think he would find his altar here. There are memories at this outpost, after all. Many memories. But you don't have those memories, do you? Just questions. I'm _convinced_ that you have questions."

"I came to this outpost because I was hoping to have my motorcycle fixed," she said. "You saw my bike, the front wheel is-"

"This is the place we last saw Priestess alive. She was our leader. She had red-hair and a scarred nose."

Priestess's hands fell from her hips and worked themselves into fists. She wondered, vaguely, how fast her heart was beating now. "She's dead." And the words were almost like a prayer when she spoke them, or a charm meant to cast out evil. She thought of her old mentor then, the woman rotting away in a crypt that was similar to this drainage ditch, dead, dead, _gone_.

Priestess needed her to be gone, but she was resurrected every day. In words. In cold, hopeless memories. In Priest and in Seth and in Marcus. And in her too, perhaps, because she was in all of them. She was the trailing shadow. She was the restless ghost. She was the cross on their foreheads, their condemnation and their damnation.

Priestess's breathing became shaky and she did not bother to steady it. Let Marcus hear her reluctance. Let him see.

"I remember her," she said, feeling as though every word were a weight on her tongue. "She was…cruel."

"Efficient is the word I think you are looking for," Marcus replied. "Practical. But I don't really care what she was. I do, however, care what Priest _is_."

"You have me here," Priestess said, swaying where she stood. Desperation made her weak and she could sense it, the unthinkable, the horrible secret, the lie, looming over her head, personified by Marcus in his all his vile glory. "I am your captive," she said and realized she had already begun to beg. "What do you want with me?"

Marcus looked off to the side. He showed her the healed half of his face, the flesh knitted back over the bone, smooth and clean. His infallibility, in that moment, was terrifying. "I want you to tell me why you still have faith in Priest," he said, "after all _he_ has done. Why do you follow him blindly? Why do you love him, Rowan?"

A protest rose in her mind, but she couldn't bring it to her lips. The truth withstood her anguish. Priestess looked at her feet again and saw the marks her boots had pressed into the wet ground. "Tell me," she said, every fiber of being straining against denial, "tell me what it is you accuse him of."

Marcus raised his shoulders in a shrug. The leather of his overcoat creaked and creased. "What we are all guilty of," he said. "_Sin_."

_Sin_. She closed her eyes, felt the tears there. What sin? Oh God, she thought she might already know…

_The Church…they kill those who break their vow of celibacy. _

"You may call Priestess cruel," Marcus said. He brought the lantern right up next to him again until the unshielded beam fell directly over him. "You may think she was ruthless, but Rowan, you must understand…she was our champion. Our leader. I can only admire her now because she was so uncompromising of her nature. She knew what she was and she wasn't ashamed of it. She was what we should have been. And Priest, he ruined her. He violated her-"

"Oh God, my God, stop!" Priestess went so far as to put her hands over her ears, but her fingers could not block out the sound of his voice, which droned on and on, dripping down to her, staining, staining _everything._

"Please, Rowan," Marcus said and he grinned at her. In the fiendish light, she saw the full length of his fangs. There was blood on his gums. Red. Another stain. "You know God isn't listening to you."

And she couldn't help it. She started to cry then, brokenly, because in her heart, she almost felt that he was right.

Priest, Priest, this couldn't be the secret. This couldn't…this couldn't….

"Do you know how she died?" he asked her, his voice that of the serpent's. When Priestess didn't answer, he leaned forward and pressed his face to the grate so that she could smell the blood on his breath. "In childbirth," Marcus said. "She died in childbirth."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Just a reminder, I will be raising the rating for this story to Mature with the next update, although the adult content will certainly not be graphic or gratuitous.

Thanks so much for reading! If you have some free time, please leave me a review. I adore all feedback.

And I have to admit, I'm a bit excited about the next chapter. It will be slightly different from the previous installments and I have lots of surprises in store. With any luck, I should have it posted in roughly ten days or sooner. Until then, take care and be well!


	19. Part 19 Rebecca

**Author's Note: **I suppose this chapter is what you might call a game-changer. Not only is it in a different point of view, it also happens to show a side of Priest that poor Rowan doesn't really know about it. Not yet, anyway. ;)

As always, I would like thank all my amazing readers and reviewers, **J-Lily, saichick, FireChildSlythern5, TrinideanFan, Lonely Bleeding Liar, yamiik, Mss Heart of Swords01, Dr E Mode, Lady Krystalyn, **and **Constance**. In addition, I would also like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys rock! Thanks a million! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 19 Rebecca**

He knew, in the most horrible, definitive way, that he should not be there. The night was deep and dark around him, a guilty veil that filled him with all the regret of a willful sinner. Priest pressed his back against the wall of the house, the unfinished wood snagging at his coat. He counted his breaths and then his heartbeats. He flexed each finger, the knuckles cracking, and wondered how it had come to this.

Priest was a stranger. He was an intruder. He was the hooded threat that came and went and was feared for the reckoning he brought. And he shouldn't be there, because it was not his place, not his home. Not anymore, at least. Not anymore.

The world had fallen still around Outpost 10, only the massive windmills chopping the air with their slender, straight blades. Eager light pulsed against the dust-streaked windows of the tiny hovel. Inside, the sound of cutlery, knives scraping against tin plates, water sloshing in a clay jug, reminded Priest that he himself had not eaten for a few days. A part of his mind, the hidden alcove he reserved for fantasy, wondered what would happen if he knocked on the front door and asked to be admitted for dinner.

And dearest God, why did he doubt their welcome?

Priest clenched his eyes shut, ignoring the beads of nervous sweat on his brow that reminded him of tears. He knew already that he was in trouble. Irrevocable, unforgiving trouble. Priestess would be looking for him, of course. He was aware of her tenacity, which ran the course from frank to outright obsessive. She would not be pleased when she returned to their quarters in Augustine and found him missing. And Priest himself was devout enough to feel guilty for forcing needless worry on her. He knew once he had been deployed to Augustine, his old home, that he would commit this trespass. Brazenly, he had taken advantage of Priestess's absence when she left him in town to conduct her own reconnaissance of the surrounding landscape. Augustine, after all, was only a few short miles away from Outpost 10…only a few short miles away from Shannon and Lucy.

Temptation. Ah temptation!

Priest had been unable to resist, to weather the draw of so many years of separation when he was so close to the home that should have been his. And would it be a great sin, he reasoned, if he only looked? If he only watched and hoped and perhaps dreamed. If he peered behind the glass of their unwashed windows and saw all the sacrifices he had made manifested in the humble family that was no longer his own.

Yes. Yes, it would be a sin and Priest sinned. Fervently. Readily. Joyfully. He took his motorcycle and left Augustine and rode straight out to Outpost 10, with only the early twilight to hide him and much latent passion burning in his breast.

And he was there now, standing in the shadow of the ramshackle home, his restraint nearly exhausted until he was certain that he could not trust himself to remain passive. Priest rested his head against the wall behind him. He felt the throb of life within the home, heard the muffled echo of each voice, of Shannon talking, little Lucy laughing and Owen, the rightful father, loving them both.

_This is my penance_, Priest thought, aware of the exquisite torment of the moment. The partition between him and his family never seemed so impermanent, so weak.

With difficulty, he steadied his mind with prayer, said a silent Our Father as he listened to Shannon clear the dishes from the table. There were only so many lines he could cross, so many sins he could commit before the wretched price would have to be paid. But Priest still wasn't satisfied. The aching agony of it all was enough to convince him of his insanity. Raising his arm, he gripped the edge of the wall, his fingers folding around the corner of the house as he pulled himself closer to the window. Just one look. Just one look and it would be enough. It would be enough.

Would it ever be enough?

He stuck his head as close to the glass pane as he dared, dropping into a crouching position beneath the sill in order to conceal the rest of his body. What he saw tore his soul in two, destroyed the lingering fantasy of his life, vanquished the hope that someday, yes someday, he might be able to return to this…to them.

His brother Owen, aged from a timid young boy into a determined man, was still sitting at the dinner table. He had Lucy, who was now about nine, perched on his knee and they were playing a game dominos together. Shannon was nearby. She moved around the kitchen with her usual esteemed grace, the edges of her white skirt flaring out around her ankles, hinting at the dusty boots she wore underneath. Piling the plates in the sink, she returned to the table…but not before she stopped to kiss Owen on the cheek.

Priest fell back, sinking to his knees. Sickness rose up in his throat and in desperation, he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

Could it be over? God, it was over.

He sat on the edge of their porch for a long time, taunted by the delighted laughter from the house, torn and broken and bleeding from the wounds he carried inside. Time, time, where had it gone? Had he been cast into a void? Had he fallen away from the world into a reality that only mimicked life?

Angrily, he fingered his rosary, listening to the click of the steel beads. He listened and he listened, but he didn't hear, otherwise he would have known that she was coming. It was already too late, of course, when she parked her motorcycle by his and slipped up to the porch where he was hiding. Priest didn't even become aware of her presence until he felt her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and away.

If she had been a vampire, he would have long been dead.

Priest jerked his head around, guilt filling his eyes and pulling at his mouth until his frown was hard. He could feel her disappointment already. It suffused the air around them, thick and invasive like smoke, scorching the back of his throat and his eyes. There was a definite heat over his cheekbones, the flush gradually extending down his neck. He found he could not meet Priestess's gaze. Instead, he looked away from her face, focusing his eyes instead on her red plait, which hung down her back like a coil of thick rope.

Her gloved fingers tapped his shoulder once, insinuating impatience. "We are leaving now," she whispered. "Get on your motorcycle."

He couldn't argue with her. Stealthily, he followed her back over to their bikes, settling himself in the long seat. It was winter and he could feel the cold metal through his pants against his thighs. His flesh tingled as he switched on the engine.

Without a word, he followed Priestess as she guided her vehicle away from Outpost 10 back towards Augustine. The moon was only a crescent and when he looked over his shoulder, once, only once, towards the tiny house, he realized that there was nothing left to him. No soul. No heart. No eager, yearning spirit.

Light pulsed from Outpost 10, a lonely beacon in their dark world. As he rode, Priest thought of their laughter and their love and how it was not his, how it would never, ever be his.

And had it been worth it, he wondered, to glimpse the one thing he was denied? Was the pain really a blessing in disguise? Was the single moment truly worth a lifetime?

_Shannon. Lucy. Shannon…Lucy…_

What if it wasn't? Priest feared, watching the blinking blue tail light on the back of Priestess's bike disappear into the gloom. What if it hadn't been worth it at all?

* * *

><p>Before Priest could even park his motorcycle, Priestess was heading up the stairs to their lodgings, her thick-soled boots making a thunderous noise on the wooden steps. They were both being quartered in the spare rooms above the doctor's house for the duration of their assignment in Augustine. The accommodations they were granted were certainly not spacious, and often stank of disinfectant. Priest found that he had trouble snatching a few hours sleep in his narrow bed with the scratchy sheets, and most times, he would lay awake, listening to Priestess say her rosary through the thin walls. It wasn't the first time he had been lodged with her, having spent a year in her company as an apprentice. Although it seemed now, in some strange sort of way, that they were truly alone together. He didn't know why, though. He didn't really know.<p>

Priest followed her, albeit reluctantly. He made it up to her room just in time to have the door closed in his face. Her anger was not a suitable deterrent, however, and he was goaded on by his own individual worry, which manifested itself in the small terrors that clung to his mind. Pressing his forearm to the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside, refusing to offer her any fumbling excuse or greeting.

Priestess was pacing, her frantic energy repressed in the cramped space. She moved between the wide dresser and the bed and then made her way over to the small desk in the corner. Her path was vaguely triangular.

The frayed curtains had been pulled back from the windows and Priest could see the main street of Augustine. The first shift of the night watch was already patrolling the town. Downstairs, the doctor was playing one of his records on the turntable. Something with violins. And a piano.

Priest looked at her and was nearly overwhelmed by her obvious rage. He decided to throw caution to the wind…and beg for mercy.

"I am sorry," he said, coming to stand by the desk. Resting near at hand was a crude map of Augustine she had most likely sketched during her reconnaissance trip that afternoon. It lay on top of her black, leather-bound Bible. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

"You thought you would be back before I returned?" she asked, her voice strained, not the confident military bark he had become accustomed to. "You thought that you could fool me?"

Priest's shoulders sagged. He touched the map with his fingers, leaving a faint imprint of grime on one corner of the parchment. "Yes," he admitted. "But before you condemn me, I want you to understand my intentions."

She flicked her hand at him, an expression of outright dismissal more than annoyance. "Restraint," Priestess said. "Where is your restraint, Priest?"

"I did nothing," he said, suddenly wild. He wondered if the doctor could possibly hear him over his music, the churning, discordant cries of the harried violins. "I did not even speak to them. I only wanted…I needed to see that they were safe."

"It is not your concern, either way." Priestess turned. She put her back to the window and squared her hips. The light in the room was dull, the shadows the color of sepia. "They are nothing to you," she said and he was almost certain that he saw something of unfettered glee in her countenance. His pain, it seemed, pleased her.

"Do not say that!" Priest countered before he could stop himself. His voice boomed, darkened by the secret fury he had long nursed.

But Priestess only looked at him. She only raised an eyebrow. "You forget yourself," she said, her own tone measured. "_Entirely_."

"Oh God." His words were touched with weakness. Priest threw himself down in the chair by the desk, true fear beating a cadence inside him.

The small mirror above the dresser showed his reflection, gave him a glimpse of the ash-colored cross tattooed onto his forehead. Priest ran one finger over the middle of the mark, his blunt nail digging into the flesh. Did this mean nothing also? Had he been willing to cast away the long, hard years of training and prayer and deprivation? Had he been ready to scorn God for a single look into something that was no more than a mirage? Had he damned himself because he missed the woman who had once been his wife and the child who had once been his daughter?

What had he done? _What had he done?_

Breathing hard, his narrow shoulders hunched, Priest glanced up at Priestess. He could not tell, but he thought she looked sympathetic.

"Are you going to report me to the Monsignors?" he asked.

He was surprised when he saw her own eyes widen, the round whites showing against the blue irises, alarm leaping to life in her expression, which was cold, which was always cold. Priestess raised her hand and rubbed her jagged nostril.

Vaguely, Priest wondered how she had received the scar that made her ugly. The story behind it, he was certain, must be an interesting one.

"God help me," Priestess said. "Who do you think I am?"

Her reaction stunned him and Priest could only sit there numbly, awash in his fetid state of guilt and recrimination and loneliness. Terrible, terrible loneliness. Downstairs, a solemn violin sounded, giving air to his grief. He listened as the record played and heard his own sadness reflected in that mournful cry, that lost lament. Darkness gathered against the solitary window. The shadows framed Priestess's lean body. She looked small.

She had difficulty holding his gaze now, he noted. Her eyes fell from his and dropped to the floor, where dirt had rubbed into the wood grain of the boards. She scraped her right boot heel over the toe of her left, stumbling, slightly off-balance.

"Don't you understand," Priestess said, "that all these years I have tried to protect you. _Every _one of you. Rowan, Seth, Marcus, the twins…you, Priest. God may have claimed you for His own, but I always thought that you were mine…for a while, at least. I cared for you. I trained you. I gave you what I could of my life so that yours might be better. I nurtured you. I prayed and fasted and fought with you. You belong to me, Priest. All of you. And I wouldn't…I wouldn't hand you over to them, even if they tried to force me. There is no sin here, only human error. And the responsibility is mine. Priest, you must know, please, you must know that you are _safe_ with is this way. It will always be this way. I swear to it. I promise."

Priestess paused. She stopped and leaned back, sagging against the window, the hem of her black coat brushing the floor. Exhaustion had drained the color from her face and she was pale. White. She trembled.

Priest put his hand to his brow, his adrenalin fading, leaving him limp. He stretched his legs out before him and sucked a breath into his lungs. Why had he doubted her? He had known better. He had _always_ known better.

"Thank you," he said, although the sentiment seemed a paltry repayment of her grace.

Priestess shook her head. "I don't want to be thanked," she said. "I just want you to understand."

"I do," he said, his words colored by a surge of affection for his old mentor. She was a good woman, after all. He wondered if she knew it.

Slowly, Priestess straightened, her movements weary. She crossed the room and sank onto the edge of her small bed. A few strands of hair poked out of her braid. The dim light made her skin look sallow.

Priest watched her quietly, out of the corner of his eye. He was thinking of strange things, of memories that were reflected now in this fractured reality. It had always been different between them, he mused. Different with him and her. The others, Rowan and Seth, Marcus and the twins, had been young when the Church found them, still in need of mothers. And Priestess, their unlikely surrogate, had not been able to fulfill their maternal yearnings. It was one of the reasons, Priest knew, that Rowan thought of her as cruel.

He grimaced a little when he remembered Rowan's righteous anger at Priestess, how she had raged and ranted against the woman when she learned that she was to be separated from her friend. Priest knew that Rowan's hate came from instinct, from all the things she had been denied and all the things she had sought out in Priestess, only to find the woman lacking.

He, on the other hand, had found something different, something that Rowan, who was still young, could not possibly understand.

Priest had not looked for a mother in Priestess. He had not looked for childish comfort or safety or nurturing. Only friendship. Only…companionship.

It was strange, he realized, to think of his old mentor as his friend, but she was, in a way. A true friend. A teacher. A constant, faithful comrade.

And it had _always_ been that way….

Priest recalled the first woeful years he had spent away from Shannon and Lucy, how he had searched for someone to explain his loneliness to him and had found Priestess. She was not much older than him and it was easier for her to regard him as her equal. And it was with compassion, not cruelty, that she guided him through the pangs of despair, letting him speak with her, letting him vent his sorrows, letting him sometimes weep.

There had been occasions in the past when he'd sit in the chapel with her and she would teach him new prays to distract his thoughts from all that he had left behind in Augustine. There were times, during the night, when Priest couldn't sleep, that he would visit Priestess in her cell, which wasn't allowed, although she never punished him.

Her patience was extraordinary, and he felt she understood how great his sacrifice had been. She had tried her best to teach him not to miss his family, had told him to find solace in God and in their own little family, Rowan and Marcus and Seth and herself. Priest had relied on her, had learned more from her than any of the other novices, because she was a good woman.

And a good friend.

Priest knew that he had disappointed her by his actions that afternoon. He knew that she must feel betrayed and maybe even hurt. He wanted her to understand that he had not forgotten her lessons, but had learned them well, had kept them close to his heart over the years and always would. _Always._

Sitting in the chair, his arm thrown carelessly over the desk, he wondered what he could say to dissolve the tension between them. But there had always been tension, hadn't there? Moments of question, of doubt. Moments when either one of them seemed posed to cross the very definite line between innocence and sin. Moments that were so very like the time she had cornered him in the corridor outside the women's dormitories and placed her hand on his chest. Priest had almost felt that he would kiss her then…if only because she reminded him of Shannon.

_It's the hair_, he told himself, searching for an excuse. _They have the same color hair. _

And sometimes, when he looked at Priestess quickly, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw his wife. It was more fleeting than an illusion. More deceptive than a dream, but the hope was there. It remained. It remained.

Priest felt the joints in his fingers stiffen. He wondered who he was misleading, really. Himself, or maybe even Priestess. It didn't matter in the end, he supposed, because nothing between them, not even their friendship, had been one-sided.

"You were right," he said, lifting his hand off the desk to rub his calloused palms together, "about feeling lonely."

Priestess kept her eyes on a groove in the wooden floor a few paces away from her bed. Priest thought she was going to ask him to leave, which would have been the prudent thing, but she didn't.

"I was fifteen when they ordained me," she said, "but I was already alone before that."

Silence. The doctor had switched off his record and the house was quiet. For an instant, Priest felt that he would suffocate in the stillness. The night was fragile and, at any minute, it would shatter.

"You warned me," he replied, his heart pulsing in the base of his throat. "You told me that it would be this way. I was naïve."

"Novices always are."

She shifted, the mattress creaking. Priest saw her tugging at the rumpled sheets, smoothing out the wrinkles in the bedspread with her rough hand. "Fifteen is young," she said, "and I did not understand. Do you see what I mean?"

"No," he lied. The muscles in the backs of his thighs had begun to tighten, and he stood to relieve the tenseness in his body, the knots that coiled underneath his flesh. He paced, following Priestess's earlier path between the dresser and the desk. The backs of his knees were sore.

Priestess folded her hands into fists and dug her knuckles into the mattress. "I was only a child," she muttered, her teeth pulling over her lower lip. "I did not know what I was swearing. I did not…I did not know what it meant…true obedience…and celibacy. Sometimes, I feel as though I was tricked."

Priest began to sweat. The room was stuffy and he thought about cracking a window. And yet, there was something about privacy that was satisfying. Idly, he crossed over towards the casement and pulled the curtains closed, shutting out the night and Augustine and Shannon and Lucy and the world, which always seemed to be waiting for him, _preying _on him.

"If I didn't know what I was saying, I cannot be held accountable," Priestess said. "The words were on my lips, but I did not keep them in my mind and heart. I knew nothing of the consequences. I knew nothing of the terrible, long years. Such long, _long _years. And yes, Priest, I was naïve. Novices always are. But I've decided now. I've thought things over and I have decided for myself. It is not a vow if you do not know what you are swearing to. I do not feel as though I promised God nothing anything day, because I was child…I was very young." She stopped and although his back was to her, Priest knew that she was looking at him.

"What about you, Priest?" she asked. "What did you swear?"

And oh, her voice was suddenly tentative. Shy. Her plain questions were masked by a thousand wishes, hiding the very real desire that had been trapped inside her, repressed by doctrine and misguided faith.

He hesitated, sensing peril. Was this a test? And if so, was it being put to him by God…or by her?

Priest moved towards the bed, halting only when his shadow fell over her. His shirt was damp and there were wet patches underneath his arms and on his lower back. He thought, perhaps, that it would be best if he left her then. There was an accord between them still. A balance. And any false step, he felt, would disrupt it. Without knowing it, he had moved into a land that was dangerous, had turned away from the straight and narrow onto a path that was crooked.

It would be difficult to ignore the rush of sensation that filled his body, but he was confident in his ability to withstand all that was treacherous. Her question still nagged at him, though. It was persistent. It reminded him of his own uncertainties, of the dark places he had dared not venture to before.

What had he sworn? What had he vowed?

Priest was surprised when she answered for him.

"I was with you that day, when you were ordained," Priestess said, her words running together in a soft whisper. "I gave you the mark myself, do you remember? And I think, I think when I looked in your eyes, I saw disbelief. I saw doubt. You have known…you have experienced love and you knew then that you could not swear against it. Am I right, Priest? Tell me that I am right."

But he couldn't commit to that. The offense would be too egregious. Instead, he turned his head to the side and glanced at the foot of her bed. "Maybe," he replied. It wasn't a complete answer, and it certainly wasn't the truth. Priest knew it and she, he felt, yes she knew it too.

He heard Priestess sigh to herself. Was she relieved? Or maybe frightened…

"I do not think it would be a sin," she said and he could tell that she had weighed each word, had measured them against her conscience. "I do not think it would be a sin, because neither of us swore to it."

"Your rationalization is dangerous," he told her, although he was frightened to discover that her logic _did_ intrigue him. "You shouldn't…we shouldn't even speak of such things."

"Oh," Priestess muttered. She ducked her head quickly, although he still caught a glimpse of the hot flush that suffused her countenance. She was embarrassed and he was embarrassed and they were both shamed, sitting there in that tiny room above the sawbone's surgery that stank of disinfectant.

Priest swallowed. His collar was uncomfortably tight and he was reminded of the time when he was a child and he came down with a bout of pneumonia so bad that his lungs were almost filled to the brim with fluid. The weight on his chest now was just the same, that intense pressure, that squeezing. He took a breath and coughed. This was the part when he left her room. This was the part when he'd be smart and walk out. But he didn't. God, why couldn't he?

_She doesn't want to ask me this_, Priest thought as he watched her perched on the edge of her bed, her hands fisted in the sheets. _She doesn't want to ask me this, but she needs to. _

Need. Need. It was alive in him too. It was the quiet insinuation of frailty. It was the admission of weakness and guilt. What did she want from him?

Priest swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Felt his collar around his neck. He imagined her fingers, undoing the buttons. One by one. She would be nervous and so would he. But they could have that moment. He could relinquish his hold on his already fragile morality and sink into the welcoming comfort of desire, that cunning beast that lurked within, feasting on his baser instincts. Denial was impermanent. It existed in the shadow of his true nature. Priest closed his eyes for a minute and let his thoughts turned inward.

What if he admitted to himself that he wanted her? What if he dared to ask this of Priestess?

And where was Heaven now that he was falling?

It had been years, he told himself. It had been years and years since he had first looked at her and entertained the thought. At the time, the notion had been uncomfortably treacherous. A dark dream. An unworthy nightmare. But now, _now…_

What now?

Priestess stirred on the bed and he observed her movements, her long limbs gathered close to her body like a dead spider. But she had Shannon's eyes and that sad, scarred face and she could be beautiful to him, in a way. In a strange sort of way.

"Do you think I am wicked?" she asked. It was the first he had ever seen her look to someone besides God for approval. And it was him, she was relying on him.

He could give it to her. They could both be fulfilled.

_This is the part_, his instincts implored, _this is the part when you leave the room. Leave. For God's sake, LEAVE._

"No," Priest said. "I do not think you are wicked."

And yet, it was a sin, what she was suggesting, that he was certain of. But what, Priest reasoned, would he have done if Shannon had found him crouching in the dark outside her house? What would he have done if she had asked him inside? What would he have done if he had been alone with her, his _wife_.

The night closed around him. His jaw clamped shut and his heartbeat dropped into a low, frantic murmur, Priest realized, with a sickening jolt, that it would be better to sin with Priestess than with Shannon. He could not defile his wife with his lust, but her, her…

Why was he doing this? Why the temptation, the insidious thoughts, the fantastical promises spawned by his weak body and failing mind? He could have this moment, he could have it, but why would he ever want it?

Priest's neck turned stiffly. He saw Priestess on the bed. The sheets an off-colored white. Golden-toned shadows. Her hair, the loose ends coming out of her braid. White skin and that scarred nose. She had blue eyes. Blue, blue eyes.

His legs gave out suddenly and he sat on the bed next to her. Downstairs, the doctor had switched his records and a voice was singing softly, the tone bereft, gripped his hands over his knees, aware of Priestess, who was breathing heavily. Their shoulders were pressed together.

Was this really about lust? he wondered. Or was this only about loneliness? Deep, unforgiving loneliness, the kind that would destroy a man. Destroy him.

They were alone now, he told himself, seizing the blessing of rationalization, which seemed so much more definite than faith. They were completely alone. Away from the others. Marcus. Seth. Rowan…

And it would only be a few minutes. Just a few minutes of grappling in dark. Her flesh, his flesh. Sweat and kisses. Shannon's hair. A few breathless seconds of her, of him, together.

Priest felt that he couldn't breathe. It was the pneumonia. It was the clammy rattle of the grave in his lungs. But he drew on the heat in his chest, let it warm him until he finally managed to talk. "All right," he said, his hand fumbling over the sheets to grasp at Priestess's fingers. "All right."

* * *

><p>He took her hard. He was not gentle. The memory of their first encounter, which was hurried and fretful, would haunt Priest long afterwards.<p>

It was awful to see Priestess cling to the last vestiges of stoicism, to hold onto all the lessons she had been taught by the Church long before Priest himself would learn them. She did not cry out when he entered her. She did not give any indication that she was in pain, except for a nearly imperceptible creasing of her brow. She kept her mouth in a firm line as she lay beneath him and her flesh, which had once seemed so tantalizing with its subtle curves, was unyielding.

It occurred to Priest, as he labored above her, that she was more of a girl trapped in a woman's ungainly body and her naivety, that wild uncertainty he had never witnessed in her before, saddened him. Her esteem was gone. Her power and authority, which had cowed even him, vanished when he took it from her. When he pressed his chest against hers, feeling her short, shallow gasps, the little gulps of air she took, she lost her enigma. The mystery was unraveled, all that was aloof and distant about her rendered human. Priestess became real. She fell from her dizzying heights into the dust besides him and there she lay, his to wreck, his to ruin, his to conquer.

But even then, Priest could not be cruel to her. There was something wretchedly unfair about her life, even worse than the sacrifice he himself had been forced to endure. And he cursed himself anew when he realized what he was doing to her, destroying her fantasy, her final dream, the hope that love could actually be gentle.

He was damned in that moment. They both were.

But that didn't stop him. He knew he would not stop.

Priest bent down to kiss her breasts. Priestess flinched. He moaned against her neck. She turned her head away towards the wall. She only tried once to touch her lips to him, as her torso arched against his. In the motion of rising, her mouth brushed across his collarbone and she whimpered a little.

Priest wanted to tell her not to cry, but he stayed silent.

The sheets and musty bedspread tangled around his legs and his nakedness made him feel ugly. It was unbearable, all of it. It was almost unbearable until the last moment, when he buried his face in her hair, his wife's hair, and felt the world finally slip away from him.

"Shannon," he whispered.

It was finished quickly. Priest lifted himself off her as gently as he could, noticing how eager she was to roll away from him. With jerky movements, she tried to cover herself. But the sheets had been kicked to the bottom of the bed and she could only lay on her side, wincing, her legs tucked up against her chest.

The bed was narrow, but Priest managed to squeeze in next to her. He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling for a full minute.

_God. Oh God._

Her muffled voice roused him. Priestess had her head pressed to the pillow and when she spoke, she looked at the wall, with its thin, hairline cracks running through the plaster like veins.

"My name," she said, "is Rebecca."

There had been something of virginal ferocity about her. The warrior maiden unsullied by the seed of a man. But that was gone now and her ferocity was replaced with an aching sadness, one of loss and reluctant acceptance.

He dropped his hand onto his chest, feeling as though he would be sick. Her back was still to him and he studied the graceful curve of her spine, her flesh pulled neatly over the bone. She had an old scar above her buttocks and one on her neck as well.

Why had he done this to her?

Priest shut his eyes. He battled his guilt, which throbbed against him. He fought his shame, which he knew could be no worse than hers. And in a strange sort of way, he knew Shannon would not want this for him. She would have wanted him to be gentle. She would have asked him to be kind. She would have expected him to be…loving.

_Loving._

And he would be. He would atone. God, dear God, he would atone.

Carefully, Priest gathered the sheets at the foot of the bed and laid them over Rebecca. He pulled her to him and let her rest her head on his chest, savoring the sensation of her arms as they snaked around his stomach.

This was all she really wanted, he realized, as he felt her tears drip down over his ribcage. To be held. She only wanted to be held.

"Rebecca," he said, touching the crown of her head. "Rebecca."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Poor Rowan. She really shouldn't have made such an idol out of Priest. He isn't exactly idol material, unfortunately. Just human, like the rest of us. ;)

Thanks so much for reading! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations and wasn't _too_ shocking. The next installment is in the works and should be posted in ten days. Until then, take care and be well!


	20. Part XX Fight

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter twenty of "Cross". My oh my, are we really twenty chapters in already? I cannot believe how quickly this story is flying by!

As always, I would like to thank my fantastic/awesome/wonderful readers and reviewers, **FireChildSlytherin5, Lady Krystalyn, Lystan, saichick, Mss Heart of Swords01, Dr E Mode **and **Lonely Bleeding Liar**. Also, I would like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts list so far. I do hope you enjoy this installment!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XX Fight **

It was the darkness that bothered her the most, the impenetrable gloom that so aptly mirrored her own despair. Priestess sat tucked in the corner of the drainage ditch, away from the dripping water, her thighs and buttocks chilled by the wet sludge that covered the floor. Marcus was gone and he had taken the lantern with him. Thinking back on it now, Priestess remembered that he always did have a flair for the dramatic. He had left her without a farewell, giving her instead the agony of uncertainty, the plague of doubt.

_Childbirth. She died in childbirth._

A prayer ran through Priestess's mind. It was something she was certain that she had made-up, pulled together from bits of psalms and pieces of hymns. She tried to focus on the mantra, but the words seemed to change with each repeat. _Our Father _easilybecame _Our Lord_. Priestess hugged her arms tightly around her knees and tried to concentrate. Her heart was palpitating, skipping a beat every now and then. She was left feeling sick, unable to breathe, choking. Oh God, she was choking.

"Enough," she warned the darkness. It was invasive. It was alive. Priestess looked into the black and saw a predator waiting for her, all hungry jaws and carrion breath. And there was absolutely nothing she could do but stare back at it. Stare right back.

But that was the trouble with the darkness, wasn't it? Who could ever tell where it began and where it ended?

_Priest ruined her. He violated her._

The bile was slick in her throat, a noxious oil. She swallowed and clamped down on her tongue, hard. A few tears of pain pricked the corners of her eyes. She blinked. Even when she closed her eyes, the black remained.

_I'm holding onto something, _Priestess thought. _I'm holding on for dear life and I'm not letting go._

But what was it she was actually fighting against? Was it the dark? Was it the cunning, undefined villain that lurked eagerly in the shadows, looking for the weakest lamb to pick off? Or was it something she already knew? Was it the truth, cold, hard, unforgiving, but not unknown?

In the back of her mind, beyond the rambling reaches of her prayers, Priestess wondered if she knew. She wondered if she had known all along.

_I've kept secrets from you._

"Why?" she asked, cursing the fetid air around her. "Why did you do this?"

But _had_ he done this? Was she absolutely certain that Priest had…that he had lain with the red-haired Priestess?

_Oh God_. She turned her head to the side, unable to avoid the images that rushed upon her. It was the worst kind of fantasy. The sickest nightmare. She saw them together and their lust was ugly, unworthy, a defilement. Or perhaps it wasn't _his_ lust, only hers.

Priestess's muscles tensed. The darkness was leaking into her, gnawing, devouring. She would be swallowed whole

What was that prayer again? She couldn't remember it. _Lord, strengthen me in this time of need. You are my refuge. You are…you are…_

His lips. He had kissed her with his lips. Priestess had felt his mouth, the skin rough and chapped, only a hint of tenderness amidst abundant shame. But what if he had kissed _her_ as well? What if _she_ had experienced things that Priestess had only dreamt of, had felt him in those places that were forbidden, had kept him in inside of her…

Priestess was on her feet an instant, her apathy abandoned in favor of wild terror. She raced across the pit, a scream brimming against her teeth and vomited in the corner. Her stomach was empty, though and she dry heaved. Fingers tightened over her gut, forming a fist. She pressed her knuckles into her stomach and waited for the nausea to subside. It didn't, really.

"Enough," she warned herself again, this time more forcefully. Her weakness was nothing short of disgraceful, and at that moment, Priestess felt more ashamed than she ever had in her entire life. Naivety was an insult and she had never consider herself gullible. Marcus could be lying, he had the tongue of a serpent, after all. Why was she ready to believe him?

_Because you've known. You've known._

When she was only fifteen, catching them in the corridor together. Priestess with her hair unbound. The shy smile. The threat of a caress and a kiss. Priest had been willing, too. Yes, he had been willing

She straightened, bottling up the thought and storing it in some shadowed alcove in her mind. There was danger here. Priestess had to recognize the utter peril of her situation. Never mind the crowding darkness. Never mind Marcus, who had always been an instigator. Never mind Priest and the red-haired Priestess, who was cruel. She was alone now and that suited her. She was alone and she could be free.

_What ever happened to their child?_

She drove her fist against the stone wall in an act of defiance. Where was her resolve? Where was her faith?

_Dead_, Priestess thought. _Damned. _And she wanted so much to lay the blame at Priest's feet. She wanted him to be with her now, only for an instant, so she could lash him with her fury. Priestess knew she could be cruel too, and brutal. She would hurt him. She would beat him and thrash him and curse him.

How could he have chosen _her? _How could he? The red-haired Priestess wasn't even a worthy rival, unlike Shannon.

And what of Shannon? Priest would never have betrayed his wife. He would never have tarnished the memory of their marriage with that wretched woman, that base, heartless woman who had hurt children and had hurt Priestess and who deserved to be damned for what she'd done. Deserved to rot in Hell.

But then Priest would burn too, wouldn't he? Because he had shared in her sin. He had taken her into his arms and kissed her and loved her. What if he had loved her…

Priestess found herself leaning her head against the stone, the damp soothing her aching temples. She forced herself to stand there, perfectly still, until her heartbeat evened. It took a while. It took a long while.

God, she had to get out of here.

And in a strange way, she was glad for the distraction, happy to think critically, to plot and plan. Walking to the middle of the ditch, Priestess looked up and saw the faint outline of the grate overhead. The darkness was less there, but even if she could reach the opening, the iron grid was certainly locked in place. Marcus had, of course, taken her rope dart from her, along with the rest of her weapons, otherwise, she might have been able to pull herself up to the grid and work the lock with her knife.

Priestess paced around the ditch, counting her steps. The stone walls were rough with erosion, but the shape of the hole itself was a perfect circle. Heel to heel, she counted nearly fifty steps around the perimeter. She paused and considered. Marcus had said this was a sewage system, hadn't he? The drain _had _to lead somewhere. There must be another grate, another opening that led to an underground aqueduct or tunnel. It would be close to the floor, wouldn't it?

Priestess dropped to her knees and crawled around the ditch. She kept the palm of her right hand pressed to the wall, feeling for any slight indentation or gap. She circled the hole twice before she found the second grate. It was narrow, the iron bars sticky with moisture.

Priestess smiled to herself. Marcus obviously hadn't been down in this ditch, he hadn't checked to make sure his prison was secure. She would thoroughly repay him for his neglect.

Squatting by the grid, she went to work, prying at the slippery bolts that held the grate in place. Her fingers were raw and blistered by the time she managed to free the first bolt. Fortunately for her, the constant rush of water had weakened the fastenings and even though she struggled with the rest, she felt that her task was not a hopeless one.

Priestess had to remind herself that patience was a virtue when she finally got to the last bolt. Her knuckles were throbbing by the time she loosened it. The grid itself gave way easily and she laid it flat on the ground besides her. Feeling the size of the hole, she realized that it would indeed be a tight squeeze, and without the benefit of any light, she'd be pitching herself into complete darkness.

The risk was worth it, she thought, even if the tunnel led to a deep cistern and she fell to her death. Even if she came to a dead end and had to crawl all the way back to the opening. She was going to fight to survive. She was going to _fight_.

Shimmying her shoulders through the narrow gap, she slid forward on her stomach, keeping her arms directly in front of her so she could pull herself inch by agonizing inch. The first few feet were torturous, the walls of the tunnel squeezing her shoulders and hips. Priestess could only lift her chin about an inch off the muddy bottom of the tube. The top of her head brushed against the ceiling.

Foot by foot she dragged herself along, fearing that the tunnel might very well run for miles and miles. After a few yards, however, she experienced a surge of dizzying relief when the pipe widened. Soon, she was able to push herself up onto her hands and knees, the gradient shifting, moving upward.

_Right to the surface_, Priestess told herself. _I'm going to climb right to the surface._

She hoped it would be daytime when she got to the top. She hoped the sun would be shining down through some grate or vent and she could feel the warmth again, let it seep into her bones and warm her frozen marrow. But there was still that spot inside her, that layer of permanent ice that held her heart and drove splinters of frigid distrust into her subconscious.

What had it felt like when they were together? Had Priest enjoyed what he did with her? Had he claimed her body greedily, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her breasts, his hips rolling against hers, moving, thrusting…

Priestess dug her fingers into the tiny cracks in the bottom of the tunnel and she nearly screamed when one of her nails bent back. Blood trailed down her hand, but the pain drove her on.

_Pain_, she thought. _I can live with the pain. I can fight it. Fight._

She was almost at the top now. Almost there. And to her utter joy, a beam of light lured her onward, slicing down from what appeared to be a vent just up ahead. Priestess's strength was renewed. She conquered the last few feet of tunnel, emerging with her face pressed to another iron grid. The bottom of this grate was loose, though. She could lift it and slide right through. She could lift it open and be free…

But not yet. Priestess retreated back into the shadows, giving herself a moment to survey her surroundings. There was a room just beyond the vent, wooden floorboards, iron walls, a table. Several metal valves used to control water flow. This had to be the sewage system's control room, directly above the drainage ditch.

Priestess pushed herself against the wall of the tunnel. She recognized the lantern on the table. It was the one Marcus had used…

A shape stalked across the room, the gait tense, purposeful. Priestess noticed a set of broad shoulders, clad in black leather, coattails swinging. Heavy boots. He was hatless and she could see the cross on his forehead.

Marcus crossed the room again, rubbing the side of his face vigorously. His lips were a delirious shade of red and Priestess saw that the rest of his skin had healed. Her heart skipped another beat. Did that mean he had fed again already?

She was sickened and it took every shred of restraint she ever possessed to keep her from pushing her way out of that vent and onto him. He was stronger, yes, and faster, but she might be able to break his neck if she got behind him. She might, if she only tried, if she _fought._

Priestess laced her fingers over the grid. _Now_, she thought. _Do it now._

The sound of an approaching motorcycle startled them both. Priestess immediately retreated into the shadows once more and Marcus stopped his pacing. He stood in the center of the control room, his head cocked to the side. The eager smile on his face told her everything she needed to know.

She waited breathlessly. She waited and waited in the dark and then he came. Priest walked into the room.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks a million for reading! If you have a free moment, please leave me a review. I adore any and all feedback. The next chapter is in the works and should be posted in ten days. Until then, take care and be well!


	21. Part 21 Blame

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part twenty-one of "Cross". As usual, I would like to take a moment to thank all my awesome readers and reviewers, **saichick**, **1993, FireChildSlytherin5, Mss Heart Of Swords01, Lonely Bleeding Liar **and **Lystan**. Also, I want to thank everyone who has added this fic to their favorites/author alerts lists. You guys are the best! I do hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 21 Blame**

The hollow sound of quickened breathing filled the circular chamber. Priest stayed as close to the doors as he could, savoring each cool breeze that slipped between the cracks, relieving the room of its overbearing heat. He was sweating, the stale scent of his body odor clinging to his black coat and tunic. The backs of his hands burned and he almost wished that he could press them against the walls, soak up some of the crypt-like coolness of the marble. But he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't blink. This was, he knew, in that most horrible, wretched way of knowing, the worst moment of his life.

Even his farewell to Shannon and baby Lucy so many years ago seemed dull when compared to this, the agony forgotten. This torment was new and foreign. Dark and threatening. And his life, he felt, was hanging in the balance, dangling from the end of a frayed string that might very well snap at any moment.

His life. Her life. The child's life…

God, what had he done?

Rebecca was standing in the middle of the chamber, her stately figure dwarfed by the Monsignors, who sat high and untouched on their towering benches. They watched her, those old crows, their papery lips pinched in judgment, their cloudy eyes veiled with doubt, with utter and complete disdain.

And Rebecca was defenseless before them. Outnumbered. Surrounded. Her power and strength had been reduced to only a shadow and that shadow itself was pale. Her face was puffy, a few tears shining in the corners of her eyes. She stood exposed, her black tunic not enough to hide the subtle roundness of her abdomen.

Priest's heart broke when he saw her trying to pull the edges of her coat over her swollen breasts. Her movements were quick. Her hands fluttered, her fingers jerked and she was not still. No, never still. She was like a phantom on the wind, pulled this way and that, teased with the promise of Heaven, but trapped here on the wicked earth.

Droplets of sweat pooled around the base of Priest's neck. His skin itched.

_How much longer? _he asked himself, the question blooming inside him, bringing with it the threat of unbridled terror. _How much longer will she be made to suffer?_

Monsignor Orelas, the most senior member of the clergy, finally seemed to shake off his calculated apathy. He stirred, dropping one lazy hand over the lip of the ledge before him. His high, maroon collar and hooded vestments lent him an air that was both brooding and malicious. And yet, there was some muted amusement in the old man's eyes. He was enjoying this.

"Priestess," Orelas said, his voice a resonant tenor, "do you think that God has abandoned you?"

It was a treacherous question, an accusation disguised as philosophy. Priest saw Rebecca shift. She tugged at her coat. She shuffled her feet. She brushed her sweat-soaked hair away from her temples. But when she spoke, her tone was confident. "God would never abandon me, Monsignor," she said.

The clergymen sat still on their benches. Like vultures.

"Indeed," Orelas replied. "Then you must tell me, why have _you_ abandoned Him?"

Rebecca flinched and Priest stiffened along with her. Although he was not at the center of their merciless attention, he still felt judged. His own conscience would allow him no freedom. The fault was his too and yet she alone would be blamed…

Why was he allowing her to the take the blame?

Rebecca's head dropped a fraction. "I have not-"

Orelas easily overrode her, "You took a vow of celibacy and now you are brought before us with a child growing in your womb. It is God you have offended. God you have slighted. God you have abandoned. Do you dare give any excuse?"

Priest's mouth was perilously dry. He pushed his lips together, felt the chapped skin, remembered what it was like to kiss Rebecca. Over and over and over again. If he was asked and not her, he knew he wouldn't be able to give the Monsignors a worthy excuse. There was none, and within him existed only a seething wave of shame. He was guilty. She was guilty. Again and again and over again.

He might have been able to account for his actions if he had only committed the one sin that night in Augustine, but he was weaker than he had ever imagined. After that first encounter, Priest had been unable assuage his longing, the base desire that made him sweat and pant like a wild, lustful youth.

There were many other times after Augustine. Some of the couplings were quick, harried affairs. Catching her unawares, up against a wall, his blood pounding in his ears, her hands, nails in his neck, pulling at her hair until it was free and loose. Those moments were easy to forget, easy to lock away apart from his memory in the barren realm of his wasted soul. And yet, there were those other times, those long, languid nights, with her, with him, sleeping together in the same bed, his face nestled in her hair, against her skin, which was surprisingly soft.

Rebecca proved herself to be more than a capable lover and she was surprisingly eager to learn from him. Priest had taught her what he knew, although his own experience was limited and together, their repressed yearning had grown into something that had captivated them both.

But the maddening blur of their trespasses could only come to an end. Strangely enough, it was Priest who had been the first to notice, not Rebecca. He had been the first to see and to know, her breasts swelling, her stomach no longer smooth, but rounded. She was nearly three months along when he finally realized what was happening. And God, he had been the one to tell her, because her naivety, intermingled with denial, had somehow kept her from understanding.

Pregnant. Rebecca was pregnant.

And the child, of course, was his.

Orelas leaned forward in his chair, although his expression was commanding, not expectant. "An excuse, Priestess?" he asked.

For a moment, Rebecca stopped her incessant movements. Her limbs were still and she stood at the center of so many hungry eyes. "I have none," she answered.

Orelas touched his fingertips to his chin. He did not look satisfied. "She is unrepentant," he said, addressing Monsignor Chamberlain next to him. "It is as I feared."

"That is not true!" Rebecca lurched forward, one hand outstretched, her coat falling open, revealing the pronounced curve of her stomach. "I do repent. I ask…I beg for forgiveness. I have sinned, but I am contrite. I beg it of God and of the Church. Please. _Please_." She spoke the last word shrilly, her voice tending towards a frayed scream.

Priest almost looked away. He thought that Rebecca was going to prostrate herself, fall down upon her knees and plead. He didn't think he could bear to see that.

His lips were dry, cracked. A bead of sweat lingered in the little well of flesh beneath his nose.

He wondered if they could see his guilt too, or perhaps they only cared about hers.

Orelas brought his other hand up, tenting his fingers under his chin. Priest thought the look was contrived, disdain masquerading as thoughtfulness. "I do not believe that you are repentant," he told Rebecca, "although I am certain you wish you were. It is hard for me to accept your zealous expressions of regret, Priestess, for I would think, if you were truly penitent, you would have reported your unfortunate condition to us yourself and not forced faithful Priest to do it for you."

And in that instant, all eyes were fixed on him. Priest stood in the shadow of the chamber doors, but he wished for more darkness, he prayed for an eternal night, for black oblivion to descend and shield him not only from them, but from his own guilt.

He tried to match Orelas's gaze, but his mouth quivered dangerously. Instead, he focused on Rebecca's back, the hood of her coat swinging low, her lean hips somewhat rounder now in pregnancy. Her body was already preparing itself, whether she liked it or not. _Mother_, her flesh said. _Bearer of the fruit. _

And he had been the one to plant the seed within her. But no one knew. He had promised himself and he had promised her that no one would ever know.

It was better this way, he felt. Safer. Let her take the blame. Let her beg for mercy where mercy would surely be given. Initially, it was Rebecca who had asked for his silence. She was certain, she said, that the Monsignors would extend to her some leniency, as her value to the Church must indeed count for something. She was their most prized warrior, a twenty-year veteran who knew what the war was and knew how to fight it. She was able to take the wide-eyed, gangly-limbed novices that the Church brought in from the Wastelands and transform them into the most pitiless warriors. She was the leader of the Priests, respected, revered and she had given her life, her soul to a struggle that had no beginning and no end.

And that _must_ count for something. Priest was certain, even as he stood by the chamber doors, away from Rebecca, away from his unborn child, that they would be safe. It was the Church's duty to protect the faithful and no one was more devout than Rebecca. Her sin was a stain, yes, but the good in her, all that was decent and loyal and brave, should outweigh a single indiscretion. He was convinced that it would. That alone made his silence tolerable. Rebecca wanted to take the blame. She wanted to be his savior and spare him.

_Stay quiet, Priest_. He remembered her gentle admonitions. _Stay quiet and I'll protect you. I've always wanted to protect you._

Priest had listened to her. He turned her into the Monsignors himself to avoid suspicion and now stood apart from her, where he belonged. Silent. Safe.

The sweat on his brow was dry and the empty breezes blowing through the cracks in the door were just enough to chill him. And suddenly, the cold was everywhere. In him. In the iron faces of the Monsignors, the leering old men who looked at Rebecca as though she were nothing.

_Falling_, Priest thought, his panic rising within him like a second heartbeat. _I cannot stop her from falling…_

"This is a disappointment," Orelas said. His fingertips played along the throat of his high collar. The skin around his cheekbones sagged with a frown. "Why did you try to hide your sin from us, Priestess?" he asked. "Was your guilt so shameful?"

His questions were hideous. Tricks of the tongue. Orelas was toying with Rebecca, the cat enjoying his kill before his meal. Priest was sickened. Was his respect so superficial? Did the Monsignors not realize, did they not know what great debt they owed to Rebecca?

God, what if they didn't?

Rebecca's defiance was spent, her obedience a heavy weight, dragging her down. Her arms hung by her sides and she was a pale figure, the husk of a human being that had been devoured and already cast away. "I was frightened," she explained, "for my child."

"You must know that Church law forbids any harm to come to the child," Orelas said.

By his side, Chamberlain nodded. "We can protect the child," he said, his voice bordering on paternal. "And we can protect you, Priestess. But there are things…there are certain matters we must settle first. If you are honest, which I know you always have been, you have very little to fear."

But she was afraid, Priest felt. And she should have been. There was an unspoken threat in this room, a serpent that coiled around her, and to a lesser extent, him. It was the worst kind of entrapment, this suffocation, and there was absolutely no escape.

Rebecca pulled at her coat again. "I think I know what you are going to ask of me," she said.

"You will tell us," Orelas said, his steely tone pricking a hole in the false comfort Chamberlain had tried to establish, "how this came to be. Were you forced?"

Priest saw Rebecca's head twitch, the tail of her braid swishing along her lower back. "Forced?" she questioned.

He imagined her face, the confusion, the same look she wore when he had first taken her, when he had hurt her.

But he hadn't forced her. He had never, ever forced her.

"Were you violated?" Orelas prompted without pity. "Were you raped?"

Her shock was evident. She took a quick step back. "No!"

"Of course not," Orelas hummed to himself. "I never imagined she could be…unless she was willing…wanton."

Chamberlain cleared his throat, shifting on his bench, the regal folds of his robes settling around his shoulders.

Orelas tilted his head to the side in acknowledgement. He had, perhaps, gone too far, although there would be no reprimand for him.

_They're above the law_, Priest thought. _But shouldn't Rebecca be above the law too? After all she's done for them…_

He had always felt, in that misguided, childish manner, that Rebecca herself was the law. She had presented herself to him and the other novices as the enforcer, the guardian of God's commandments. But what happened when the protector herself fell afoul of what she had sought to keep? Was she damned or was she saved?

With each passing minute, Priest felt that her chances of redemption were fading. And she had been deprived of the very blessings she had bestowed, striped of the assurances she had once freely given.

It was not fair. It was not just. It was…it was a sin.

His eyes burned, water beading on his lashes. He raised his arm and pretended to wipe the sweat from his forehead, concealing his tears.

Orelas sat forward in his high-backed chair, his arms extended over the ledge as though he meant to confide in Rebecca. But she stayed where she stood, in the middle of the room, away from him and them and all their sickness.

"Who is the father?" he asked. "Who did you allow to sin with you?"

Priest's knees weakened and his shoulder blades touched the door behind him. The hinges creaked, the whine of metal echoing throughout the chamber. This was the moment. Salvation or damnation. Her love versus his betrayal. He could say it now, if he really wanted to. He could make a martyr of himself.

_But what will happen to Lucy and Shannon?_ a small voice asked him._ They will hear of this and they will know. You can only choose. Who would you rather spare? Them…or her._

His mouth opened. His lips parted. He tried to think of the words, but he did not dare say them. Silence. Silence was his and it was blessed. Rebecca had sworn to protect him. She wanted to. He was not in the wrong, was he? He was-

Damned. He would be damned for this.

Priest looked at his hands, folded them into fists, saw the scars on his knuckles, the light freckles. In the end, he said nothing. He did not speak for her.

But Rebecca spoke for him. "I do not know the father," she said.

Orelas was incensed, but he bore his fury well, with cool dignity. "How can that be?" he asked. "What is his name?"

Rebecca's head jerked up. Her defiance was lukewarm, but it was there again, a tiny flickering flame. "I do not know his name," she replied. "He never told me."

That disturbed Priest the most, because it was indeed the truth. Why had he never told her? Was it because he had never wanted to hear it on her lips the way it used to be on Shannon's when they came together?

_Ivan_, he thought, wishing she could somehow hear him. _My name is Ivan, Rebecca._

"Where can he be found?" Chamberlain asked.

But Orelas, as usual, was much more direct. Much more dangerous. "Is he a member of your order?" he questioned. "Is he a Priest?"

Rebecca let her hands fall over her round abdomen. She touched the place where her child grew. "He comes from Augustine," she said, "but I know nothing else."

"A godless heathen," Chamberlain commented. Murmurs of assent from the rest of the Monsignors followed.

Priest himself was bewildered. Somehow, Rebecca had managed not to lie. She had fulfilled her vow. She had protected him.

How long, he wondered, would it be until she realized that _he _had failed _her_?

Orelas rose, abruptly, flicking his wrists in order to keep his voluminous sleeves from covering his thin hands. "We will adjourn for now and discuss our course of action in private," he said, offering Rebecca what might have been a look of pity. "If you still have faith, Priestess, I would use this time to pray."

* * *

><p>The Monsignors summoned him for an audience. A private meeting. Surprisingly, Priest was not as terrified as he thought he would be and he was blessed with an immeasurable sense of calm as he walked down the corridor to Orelas's study. Perhaps it was his denial that allowed him to think so clearly. Or perhaps it was his arrogance, his entrenched belief that he might just be able to get away with this crime.<p>

A small, wretched part of him had become accustomed to the idea of throwing Rebecca to the wolves. And yet, his virtue, his moral compass, was not destroyed. His wickedness, which was inherent in him only because it was inherent in all beings, did not thrive, but rather continued to shrink. With each passing step, Priest abandoned the delusions he had carried. Something must be done. A confession was warranted. Her good name should be resurrected and he should try to protect her. And it was impossible to deny what she meant to him. Rebecca was not Shannon, but she was the mother of his child. There could be a way out of this, he reasoned. Maybe God would have mercy and save them both.

Maybe.

Priest paused outside the study doors and his knock was unusually timid, his knuckles just brushing the polished steel inlaid with the circular cross. He was disappointed when they admitted him at once, into their private brotherhood which seemed so full of scorn and disregard.

Priest entered the study, felt their eyes focus on him. All the tiny details of the moment broke apart. A carpet beneath his feet. The desk was wooden. Some books on the walls, not many. Stained glass windows that opened onto ashen darkness. The Monsignors sitting in chairs, their hoods down, the gathering informal.

It was hard for him to be frightened when he saw that they were all old men. Just old, tired men.

"Priest." Orelas was sitting behind his desk and he welcomed him with a small, subdued wave of his hand. The others nodded.

"It is a honor," Priest replied, although the words were like thorns on his tongue.

A smile cracked Orelas's frigid expression, the ice splintering around his lips. "I think you know why we have asked to meet with you. First, I must personally offer my thanks for informing us of Priestess's unfortunate state. If you had not told us, I do not believe she would have confessed it until it was too late. She is desperate, you know."

Priest said nothing. He knew that Rebecca had wished him to turn her into the clergy to avoid suspicion, but it was still wrong. An even greater sin, perhaps, than the one that had brought them there.

"You did her a great service," Chamberlain commented. He was seated in a low-backed chair, his regal appearance diminished in the tarnished grey light coming in through the stained glass windows.

Again, Priest said nothing. He had done little for Rebecca, only harmed her. Only caused her great pain.

And what pain was there yet to come?

"There is another matter, I'm afraid, that we must attend to," Orelas continued. His tone was almost cavalier, off-hand and he seemed rather bored with the whole thing.

Priest's gut clenched, the acid curdling in his stomach. He fingered his rosary and felt the cold beads slide against his palm. What if he told them now? What if he told them the truth?

"Apart from Priestess, you are the most senior member of the Order," Orelas said, his jowls quivering a little as his chin moved. "We wish to consult with you, as we were accustomed to consult with her, on this rather _unseemly_ situation. Punishment has yet to be decided, but we could benefit from your opinion. Tell me, Priest, what would you have us do with her? What do you think would be…appropriate?"

Priest stood motionless for a moment, his limbs uncomfortably rigid. Could this possibly be happening? Had chance and circumstance granted him the opportunity to save Rebecca? He blinked, the world spinning and sliding wildly before his eyes. He could feel his heartbeat rising, responding to the faint promise of hope, of salvation. God was merciful. He had been blessed with this offering.

_Thank you_, Priest thought, the words spiraling inside his skull, ringing like cathedral bells, loud and clamorous and deafening. For an instant, unfettered joy conquered him. There was a light in the valley, dispelling the shadows. There was a way out.

Quickly, Priest gathered himself. He presented a picture of indifference to Orelas and the rest of the Monsignors, his expression tempered by shrewdness.

"This is difficult," he said, reluctance in his tone, making him seem humble.

Orelas nodded. It was strange how understanding the old man could be. Occasionally. Not always. But occasionally. "Priestess was your mentor," he said. "I know you still must bear some shred of respect for her, but you must look beyond that now. She has sinned. She has broken her sacred vow. We must all consider this."

Priest dropped his chin, looking at Orelas out of the corner of his eye. _I must not seem eager_, he warned himself._ Be patient. Play their game._

"She is very valuable," he said. "To the Church. To the Order. The other Priests, myself…we rely on her. To many, she is the beginning and end of things."

Orelas's narrow nostrils flared. A spark glinted behind his eyes and for a second, Priest was afraid.

"Only God is the beginning and end of things," the Monsignor said.

"Yes," Priest replied quickly. He needed to be on his toes. "But I wasn't speaking in terms of doctrine. I was speaking as a soldier. Priestess still has the loyalty of those in the Order, those who do not yet know of her sin. And if she were to be revealed as fallen, morale might never recover. Our latest campaign, as I'm sure you know, has been slow. Difficult. We have lost several and we have gained almost no ground against the hives. Priestess, however, has offered us something of determination. Not only is she a veteran, the most practiced in this type of warfare, she is our leader. We can rally around her. We can look to her and pass on our worries, because she has always delivered some kind of victory. I think, Monsignors, that you will find she is needed, even now, in her reduced state. It would be bad policy…very bad tactics, to have her defrocked."

Priest paused, accepting the silence that fell around him. In the quiet, he fancied he could almost hear the soft sound of the ashes hitting the stained glass windows. He thought of wings and of birds.

Orelas seemed to sink into the moody stillness. He sat back into his chair, arms extended before him. He drummed his fingers once on the lip of the desk, but said nothing more.

Monsignor Chamberlain, who tended to defer to whomever had spoken last, raised himself out of his own chair and crossed the room. His steps were small, nervous, as if he were ashamed for drawing attention to himself. The great hood of his robe rested on his shoulders and his head looked small, sitting atop a neck that was decidedly scrawny.

When Chamberlain stopped next to him, Priest found that he was never so aware of his own power, of his muscled arms and rough hands and the deadly dagger tucked into his belt. And yet he was still discounted, still made to bow and scrape to those who were weak and blind and could not protect the cities with their prestige alone. He was sickened by the notion and his guilt ceded, only to be replaced by anger.

Didn't they see, he wondered, that Rebecca was their better?

Or perhaps they did…and therein laid the danger.

Chamberlain's face was sympathetic, as if he understood all these things and was rightfully embarrassed of himself. He glanced once at Priest and then back at Orelas.

"He is right," the Monsignor said. "Priestess is our most valuable asset. She has rendered a great service to the Church, not just now, but for nearly twenty years. She is the last left of the original Priests. And she alone knows the training protocol. We need her."

Priest did not know whether he should be relieved or not by Chamberlain's conclusion. It stank of belittlement and other, more vile things.

Orelas dropped his hands onto his lap. "Then what would Priest have us do?" he asked, his patience clearly worn thin. "Would he have us confess to all the world that our most devout and respected warrior is about to birth a bastard child? Is that what you wish, Priest? Are you asking that Priestess be freely allowed to thwart the Church's will?"

"No." Priest looked Orelas straight in the eye when he responded, gave the old man a taste of his fire, which was usually reserved for the battlefield alone. "What I am asking for is common sense. Nothing more. If I were to choose Priestess's punishment, I would not have her defrocked. Since the law forbids harm to the child, she will have to be sequestered until she can deliver. After the birth, she may return to active duty. I know that she will submit to the rule of the Church without question. She will repay your compassion with twice the loyalty she showed in the past, with twenty more years of grateful and willing service."

"And what of the child?" Orelas asked. "Is the child to be tolerated also?"

Priest shivered, chilled to the bone by the Monsignor's thoughtless words. He realized, in some deep, dark pit in the back of his heart, that the man was talking about _his_ child, a life that he had helped to create. Up until that moment, he had avoided thinking about the baby. Lucy was his child. Lucy was his daughter. But what about the life inside Rebecca? That new, innocent soul. That small part of him.

_Lucy's sibling_, Priest thought, the very notion coursing through his body like an electric shock. _This child will be Lucy's sibling._

He knew then that he was being asked to answer for the fate of his child and it was a horrible question, a horrible choice. What would he want to happen? What fairy-tale would have to be wrought in order to assure his child's safety and happiness? In that same secret pit in his heart, in that aching hole, Priest tucked aside his love for this child, which would never be fulfilled. He gave away a part of himself, as he had given Lucy to Owen and accepted the pain as a punishment for his sin.

And Rebecca, she would be punished also.

Priest knew what he had to say, but the words were dry and sharp, stuck in the back of his mouth so that when he breathed, he felt the dust of them pour down into his throat. But this wasn't about him. This wasn't even about Rebecca. It was about the child, _their_ child and what they, as parents, could possibly do for such a precious life.

"It stands to reason," he told Orelas, "that the child will have to be sent away. Priestess cannot be its mother. A suitable home may be found without too much trouble. And you must realize, Monsignor, that being deprived of her child will be enough punishment for Priestess. You know that I was married before I was found by the clergy. You know I used to have a family…a daughter. I can speak from the knowledge of my own sacrifice, which has made me more dedicated to our cause. Priestess will be devout as well. She always has been. Give this option. Help her. Hate the sin, but love the sinner. She is worthy of forgiveness. She deserves redemption."

Again silence, but this time, a question lurked beneath the stillness. Although Priest stood motionless, he felt as though he had stepped across a boundary, leapt over a line that lay invisible at his feet, but was there nonetheless.

The Monsignors looked at him through their eyes of cold glass. Orelas sat back in his chair, his smile indulgent, but touched with a hint of the dangerous.

"Thank you, Priest," he said, his tone removed, distant. "I think we have all that we need."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>For the record, I don't think Orelas, Chamberlain and the other Monsignors see past Priest's little lie for one second. They may be fanatics, but they certainly aren't stupid. ;)

Thanks so very much for reading! If you have some free time, please leave me a review. I will have a very happy Thanksgiving if you do. The next chapter is in the works and will be posted as soon as possible. To all my American readers, I hope you and your families have a great holiday. And to my non-American readers, I do hope you have a great week. ^_^ Take care and be well!


	22. Part XXII Calvary

**Author's Note: **Hello, all! Welcome to part twenty-two of "Cross". Before we begin, I would like to thank all my dedicated readers and reviewers, **Lystan, FireChildSlytherin5, saichick **and **Mss Heart of Swords01**. Also, I would like to thank all the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. I am truly grateful for your continued support and encouragement. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XXII Calvary **

Priestess huddled against the wall of the tunnel, her cheek pressed against the cool, slick metal siding. Her heartbeat had slowed into a sluggish rhythm and her breathing was pitifully shallow. Shock had rendered her paralyzed. Her legs were numb. Her arms had lost their strength and they lay useless now, draped across her lap. She did not tremble, she did not weep, her distress only manifesting itself as a hollow, dull ache that made her feel inhuman. For one moment, for one brief, careless interlude, she thought she would like to be weak. It would be a welcome reprieve. It would give her sterile life the flavor of humanity, now, when her world seemed so enclosed.

There was something to be said for corruptibility and Priestess wondered how different her existence might be without virtue. She would have abandoned the Church, perhaps, like Marcus had. She would have lost her way and been glad for her freedom. She would have taken her lust (and she could acknowledge to herself that it _was_ lust) and offered it to Priest like the red-haired Priestess had once dared to. And she could lull her conscience into silence, now. She could stay tucked away in the shadowed tunnel while Priest met his reckoning below.

Selfishness was a wicked temptation and it seduced Priestess, who was still lost to the depths of her doubt. She thought she deserved the gift of her individual frailty, which she had been denied since childhood. She thought deserved to help herself and no one else.

And Priest, it was possible that he deserved nothing when she had already given him everything.

Priestess raised her head, her eyes diluted with pain and she saw him stride into the room with his hands clenched and his shoulders held a bit too stiffly. She saw the old veteran who couldn't be bothered to show fear, even though a small, sick part of her hoped that he was frightened.

It was what Priest deserved, wasn't it? To be fearful. To live with his sin, which had tainted not only his soul, but the souls of others. It was personal Hell. It was what Priestess wanted him to have…or did she?

Priestess sat still in her sanctuary. She didn't think she could decide. Not yet. Not yet, anyway.

Inching up to the vent, she came close enough to let the tip of her nose brush the iron grate. Marcus was standing directly below her, his arms swinging easily by his sides, an arrogant, animalistic tilt to his head. He looked happy and his contentment was obnoxious to Priestess, who was beginning to learn to hate him. The cross on his forehead seemed like a defilement and she wanted to peel it from his flesh. Was there no one worthy enough to bear it? Had there ever been?

She chewed on her chapped lip, longing for water. Her thirst fed her delirious anger, which was reaching new heights as she hid herself in the dark. Priest was in the room now and he stopped on the other side of the table, daring to rest his knuckles on the edge. His posture, she thought, was straining to be casual, struggling to uphold that natural authority she had always found in him.

But deception had given him the face of a hypocrite and Priestess could not look at him without thinking of _her_.

Her forehead touched the grate in front of her. Rage. Did her rage mean that she was weak? Did that make her any more human? Priestess couldn't decided. Later, maybe. Later.

Marcus chuckled as he beheld Priest, his laugh not entirely brash, but just refined enough to assume superiority. "The Prodigal Son," he said without a trace of a sneer in his voice. "Have you changed your mind so soon?"

Priest did not hesitate. Did not blink or flinch. "Where is she?" he demanded.

Priestess couldn't help it. Her heart throbbed and she was swept away from her misplaced malice Was he possibly talking about her?

"To continue our conversation from last time," Marcus replied. He ran the heel of his palm over his hair, pulling the skin around his tattoo. It was an obscene gesture.

"Her motorcycle," Priest grunted, keeping his hands on the table. "In the dust, outside. I followed the tracks here."

"Who's motorcycle?" Marcus was toying with him, enjoying the game. He flashed Priest a smile, all white teeth and proudly bared his fangs.

Priest's lip curled and a for a fleeting instant, Priestess thought that he was brave. The quiet ache in her heart renewed itself, reminding her of all the things she thought she could forget about there in the dark. Her love. Her hope. The lingering promise of something she thought might exist, something that had briefly come to life when they had kissed. Was it possible, still? Priestess asked herself. Was it possible that he might care….

…_for her._

Priest was standing there, the knight facing the dragon. He had come for her, as he had come for Lucy…as he would have come for Shannon. Priestess leaned forward. She dared to lace her fingers over the iron slats of the grate. The sudden rush of blood through her veins was intoxicating, heady and intemperate like a fevered hallucination. She nearly lost herself to the wildness of it all. Was _he_ her only weakness? Was it Priest?

She steadied herself. She remembered her vows, even though they were old, stale echoes in her mind. _Obedience, poverty, chastity. Obedience, poverty, chastity. Obedience, poverty…what if I could be with him?_

Priest shifted, moving his thick-soled boots. The frayed edges of his coat fluttered and for the first time, he seemed to hesitate. "Where is Rowan?" he asked and that was all.

It had been a while, Priestess realized, since he had said her name. She removed her hand from the grate, the blood from her broken nail trailing down her wrist in a sticky stream. It was these common blessings, these small, everyday miracles that somehow managed to renew her faith.

Marcus, on the other hand, only looked amused. His depravity itself was a living thing, a stench that clogged the air of the room, gave it the odor of a graveyard. He was a leech, bloated by his own pride. He was the pure embodiment of hubris. And Priest was his opposite. Humbled. Restrained. Penitent.

From afar, Priestess studied her friend's expression. He bore the look of the supplicant without appearing pathetic and he had clearly not come to beg. But Marcus, for all his cunning, did not seem to understand his adversary's intent.

A moment of silence stretched between them. Marcus leaned forward on the table, mimicking Priest's stance, his hips tilted to the side. The folds of his leather coat fell back and revealed his dirty, singed trousers. There was a reddish handprint on his knee, the bloody shadow of five fingers spread wide.

"I'm surprised you came looking for her," he said, each word measured, his barbs honed and precise. "I've always thought you were very selfish."

Priest sniffed. A muscle under one of his eyes jumped and Priestess thought she saw one of his hands twitch. His dagger was still strapped to his hip, but she knew he wouldn't be quick enough. Marcus had already proved himself to be faster, stronger, fatal…

Oh God, why had Priest even bothered to come after her?

Instinct answered. _Love_, it told her. _Isn't it even a possibility?_

No, no. She would decide later.

"Maybe," Priest conceded gruffly. Priestess knew he was trying to talk his enemy in circles, win this meaningless war of words. "Maybe I am selfish."

"Oh, you are." Marcus's eyebrows moved up his forehead. "Tell me, did you come because you need Rowan, because you can't start your _war _without her help? Or did you come for another reason, because you might _want_ her? Which is more appropriate, Priest? Consider this, which hurts your frail little conscience less?"

"Neither."

"And how quickly you've ruined our rapport," Marcus replied, playing the part of the scholar while he left Priest in the dust of private despair. "We were doing well, for a while. The correct answer, in case you were wondering, is both. Your conscience is still weak, which surprises me. I thought you were immune to all those vulnerable pangs of virtue…especially after Rebecca."

Priestess saw Priest react to the name, but she was confused. Rebecca? She didn't think she knew a Rebecca and Priest had certainly never mentioned her, unless…

Priestess closed her eyes for an instant, remembering her old mentor's face, the scarred nose, the thin, arched eyebrows, her hair pulled back strictly from her forehead, the color not classically red, maybe auburn. Rebecca. Had her name been Rebecca?

For some reason, she had trouble giving a name, a _true_ name, to that hateful woman. Calling her Priestess was easier. Impersonal. Formal. A designation provided distance, allowed her to separate herself from the person that existed behind the title. To think of the red-haired Priestess as Rebecca, who had been named by a mother and father, who probably had something left of her family in the world, who could even have a child, made her uncomfortable.

_I can't call her Rebecca,_ Priestess told herself. She knew she was in danger of creating a real person out of the name, a human being like herself who had the potential to love and to be hurt.

Priestess opened her eyes. She gazed through the narrow slats of the vent and found Priest's face. Had that name been his undoing as well? Had it shattered his resistance and reduced him to sin?

Without thinking, she stuck her bleeding finger into her mouth, trying to suck away the pain. There was a chance, she realized, that she could hear the truth from Priest's own lips. She could watch as he unwound the careful bindings around his soul and showed her exactly what lay within, the ugly things, the dark, wretched little vices. It was not something she ever thought she would want to see and yet, there seemed to be a perverse sort of beauty to it, a longing that might be fulfilled.

Priestess felt her teeth start to close over her finger and she winced. There was so much pain in this moment and it wasn't even hers, but his. Her rage slipped, faded. She began to pity Priest.

But Marcus remained unforgiving. He straightened, his shoulders broad, his stance exuding a sense of wicked power that made Priestess's stomach squirm. "You still won't hold yourself accountable?" he asked Priest. There was a note of incredulity in his tone, although he did not truly seem the least bit shocked. "Your conscience is so sensitive and yet, you refuse to admit what you have done. That is arrogance, Priest. Sheer and utter arrogance. Here, listen, I will give you a chance to _redeem _yourself. Tell me, did you come here today to rescue Rowan, or are you still suffering through you penance?"

"My penance?" Priest lifted his hands off the table. A sheen of sweat made his brow slick and a vein throbbed in his temple.

"Denial sickens me," Marcus spat, showing a hint of righteous disdain. "I have never denied what I am and my soul is purer for it. More worthy than yours, Priest."

"Fiend!" Priest snarled.

Marcus ignored him. "I know why you are here," he said. "You think if you can save Rowan, you might be able to save Rebecca. And you only want to save Rebecca to lessen the burden of guilt you carry around. But it would be so much easier, Priest, if you would admit the truth, if you would finally understand that it was _you_ who killed her."

Priestess felt her breath freeze in her throat, her lungs constricting, pushing against her ribcage. A dangerous flush started at the base of her neck and then crept up her face. Her cheeks burned, the heat consuming, rising, blazing with such a vengeance until she was reminded of Hell. She had once wished that Priestess-Rebecca-would burn in Hell. She had hoped that the woman would twist and shriek and writhe in flames that were everlasting. She had wanted her torment to be complete and eternal. She had wanted her to suffer.

Tears dropped from her eyes, soothing the heat on her flesh, baptizing her anew. Priestess wept. She wept because she had come to hate herself in that moment.

And Priest, he seemed to hate himself too. He gave in. He took a step back from the table. He retreated away from Marcus and lost the very last of his esteem.

Priestess knew that she was looking at a broken man and as much as she wanted to take his hurt away, she recognized the merit in his struggle. They needed this, perhaps. A small taste of their own fragile humanity.

But Priest only stared at Marcus. He met his gaze, held it, stood firm in his grief and regret. The room was still around him, the old valves and water pumps wearing cobwebs. The light from the lantern on the table burned low. Shadows rose.

Priest nodded, dropping his chin ever so slightly, a small defeat. "Yes," he told Marcus. "I killed her."

Priestess's head hit the grate, her strength spent. She heard Marcus laughing, that dreadful _ha ha_ which bubbled in the back of his throat. There was triumph in his voice, an almost boyish happiness that made him seem vicious and vile. Priestess wondered why Priest had let him win. Was the truth that powerful? Did it shine through all concepts of good and evil? Was it the only constant in life?

Priestess shook her head against the bars. She would decide later. Later, maybe…or never.

"Very good," Marcus crowed. He was clearly revitalized by his minor victory. An ugly flush colored his face, taking away his vampiric paleness until he almost looked human again. "You have made your confession. You have acknowledged your guilt. But you must already know, Priest, that there is no penance for sin. That's a lie. You can shut yourself up in their little confessionals and you can say all their prayers, but your soul is damned. Rebecca took it with her when you killed her and she'll keep it. She won't ever give it back. And you thought you could save yourself by coming after Rowan. You thought you could-"

"You're wrong," Priest said and he spoke with such vehemence that Priestess's heart jumped into her mouth, remaining there for a beat or two.

Marcus appeared disappointed. He adjusted the sleeves of his coat, pulled the cuffs down over his wrists. "And here I thought your eyes were finally opened," he drawled. "Self-reflection is miserable, isn't it? You don't like what you see. You can't believe how ugly you really are."

"You are very mercenary, Marcus," Priest said in an easy voice. One of his shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. "I can recognize the predator in you now. But like all animals, you've become single-minded. Stupid. You chase after your quarry, you're relentless, but you do not see what lies just beyond your vision. If you cannot see it, it must not be there, yes? Your stubbornness is fatal. You think I am selfish only because _you_ are. Otherwise, you would have realized already that I did not come here to relieve my guilt…to unburden my unworthy soul, as you seem to imply. This has nothing to do with Rebecca-"

"Your delusions are pathetic," Marcus raved.

"This isn't about what I did to her-"

"You're lying to yourself!"

"This is about Rowan," Priest said. He paused, then added, "I love her."

Her world stopped. Priestess tried to steady herself. She groped wildly for reality, felt it slipping through her fingers, falling away from her in the maddening whirlwind that dragged her far from the familiar into a place that was foreign. Priestess almost wanted to hide from herself, from the truth, which was indeed constant, which certainly surpassed all jaded notions of good and evil and struck right at the heart. She drew back into the tight corner of the tunnel and hugged her knees close to her body. She suffered through each unrepentant emotion, through fear and guilt and shame and even joy. She did not know what to make of herself or of him, Priest, who had somehow worked a miracle.

He had done this thing, wrought this wonder. He had unknowingly reached for her in the dark and freed her faith from ruin. He had given her the one thing she had wanted, the only thing she had ever truly prayed for. And how did she feel now that her life was fulfilled? Was it the dream she expected? Or had all those who had come before, Shannon, Rebecca, had they forever changed Priest in a way that still kept him distant from her?

Priestess pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from crying out. She didn't know. She didn't know. Oh God, how could she know?

"Later," she whispered to herself, unable to stop the sudden surge of pure happiness from conquering her. "I'll have to decide later."

But then Marcus started laughing again, his voice surprisingly shrill, the hiss of a treacherous serpent. He was amused and he mocked Priest openly, taunted the humble man before him who had sacrificed so much only to gain so little.

Priest remained steadfast. His eyes narrowed and he let his hand move an inch closer to his belt where his dagger glinted in the quiet light of the lantern. His shadow was thrown into sharp relief against the wall behind him. Marcus noticed the movement.

"Are you going to kill me before I tell you where she is?" he asked.

Priest thought about it for a second. His hand stilled. "I don't believe you ever would," he grated.

"I have nothing to lose," Marcus replied. "Especially if she's dead."

And Priestess saw it. She saw the end looming before her, the final, fatal struggle. Priest moved quickly. His hand went to his knife and he pulled the blade from its sheath.

Marcus looked at the weapon, snarled. His arm lashed out and in one sweeping motion, he knocked the table against the wall. The lantern shattered. Burning oil spread in a small pool of flames across the floor. And nothing stood between them, nothing at all. Priest was already raising his knife, eager to deal the first blow.

Priestess blinked. She imagined what his blood would look like spilled next to the oil. Marcus was quicker. He was stronger. He was fatal…

"No!" she screamed, thrusting herself forward through the vent, the grate clanging shut behind her.

Priest turned and saw her. His arm dropped slightly, the tip of his knife pointed down. Marcus took a half-step back…and slammed right into her. Without thinking, Priestess snaked her wiry arms around his neck and pulled, feeling his airway constrict beneath her hold. He was taller than her and as he bent forward, trying to push her from his back, her feet came off the ground. Her chin smacked into the back of his head and she caught the smell of him, that odor of rotten meat and rank flesh that she associated with vampires.

_Green eyes, _Priestess thought, remembering when Marcus had been the scared young boy who had sat with her on the benches outside the arena and squeezed her hand. In that blurred instant, she pitied him, missed him for what he had been and what he would never be again. But Priestess had been trained to be merciless. She tightened her grip, twisting his head as fiercely as she could. Any second now she would hear the snap, would feel the neck bone snap. Any second now he would fall dead at her feet and she would have to think of him only as that little boy, not the monster he had become.

But then Marcus caught her with his elbow, right in the chest. Priestess felt all the air escape her in a powerful whoosh and she was certain that one or two or her ribs might've been cracked. Pain radiated out through her chest and her eyes watered and suddenly, she was on her back, thrown to the ground with a single thrust that sent her sprawling. Her head slammed hard against the wooden floorboards. She tried to get her feet underneath her, felt the creeping coldness of Marcus's shadow slide over her prone form…_death_

From out of the corner of her eye she saw Priest's knife, the point of it seeking Marcus's jugular. The vampire whirled around. He caught Priest under the arm and flipped him back. There was a tangle of limbs, arms flailing inelegantly. Priest's legs stretched out in front of him as he hit the far wall. He was unconscious, his head sagging against his chest. A muted moan escaped through his parted lips.

Priestess braced her arms under her torso and tried to pick herself up. Marcus was hovering over her, the flickering light of the dying fire showing yellow against his fangs. She knew what was coming, she knew, oh God…

The noise. It wasn't exactly in the distance, but close enough to reverberate in her aching chest. It rose as a hum and then a roar, a whole chorus of engines. There were at least a dozen motorcycles, Priestess guessed, riding hard.

Marcus's attention lapsed. He looked over his shoulder, slack-jawed and pathetic.

But Priestess could only smile, her faith restored. "The cavalry's here," she told him.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Ah, Priestess finally heard what she needed to hear…although it kind of came at a bad time, hehe.

Thanks for reading! If you happen to have some free time, please leave me a quick review. Feedback always makes me insanely happy. The next chapter should be posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well!


	23. Part 23 Sin of Omission

**Author's Note: **Hello all and welcome to "Cross". Wow, are we up to part twenty-three already? My goodness, I can hardly believe it. And here I thought this story was only going to consist of a few drabbles, haha.

Before we start, I would like to take this opportunity to thank all my lovely readers and reviewers, **saichick, Mss Heart of Swords01, FireChildSlytherin5, Lonely Bleeding Liar, Lystan, Genius-626, Jag **and **Pangolin Dreams**. Also, I would like to thank all the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. I do hope you enjoy this installment!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 23 Sin of Omission **

It was a long time before Priest saw Rebecca again. As the weeks turned into months, he found it easier and easier to tell himself that he had fallen into a strange sort of dream, that his sin was only illusion and that the path before him remained straight and narrow. It did not help, of course, that he was beginning to believe his own convenient lie. Throughout his life, Priest had never been comfortable with falsehoods, although now he was soothed by deception. It frightened him, occasionally, when he realized how quickly his conscience could be compromised. He was able to forget Rebecca most of the time. But he doubted that she, on the other hand, would ever be able to forget him.

After his private audience with the Monsignors, Priest was relieved to discover that the world around him remained very much the same. Although the clergy seemed intent on keeping him close to Cathedral City, he was often sent out into the field on solo missions, scouting the vast Wastelands and reporting new hive activity. The work was almost bureaucratic, not entirely that of a soldier, but Priest took comfort in his solitude. For some reason, he thought that he wouldn't be able to face Rowan and the others just then. He had taken care to bury his guilt deep within him, but he was convinced that reflections of it must glimmer on the surface, disrupting his impassivity in small, unnoticed ways.

Rowan was a particular threat to him. She was an intensely sharp-eyed girl and she knew his soul well. If anyone would ever find out his secret-Rebecca's secret-it would be her. In a way, Priest feared that he could keep nothing from the young woman. She would see him and she would sense it and she would condemn him, _harshly_. There was something unforgiving about that girl, something that struck him as dangerous.

And it would be terrible, he decided, to live in the shadow of Rowan's disappointment, to have her faith in him shattered, which he did in fact cherish. Priest much preferred his loneliness to exposure. He was selfish and he wanted to be safe. He was ashamed and he wanted, so desperately, to be alone.

Like her. Like Rebecca. From what he had gleaned, she too was living the life of a cloistered ascetic. The Monsignors had sequestered her in one of the smaller monasteries in Cathedral City, away from prying eyes and suspicious minds. For a while, Priest had tried to keep track of the months, tried count the days that would led up to the birth of his child, but his attention and interest soon faded. He did not think of the child. And he did not think of Rebecca again, until she quite casually crossed his path one day. It was the last time, the very last time, Priest ever saw her alive.

He had been passing through a dilapidated section of the Order's monastery, a place that he used to take solace in, but now found unfriendly. The bells from the chapel were announcing vespers and the air of the city, tormented by the roars of ash-spewing smokestacks and the glowering homilies that played out on the electronic signs, was unusually quiet. Priest himself did not trust the silence. He walked up the corridor with something of fear in his tread. There were eyes in the walls, he felt, watching him, pronouncing judgment on his soul which would never be clean again. He thought of the old days when he was still a novice. He thought of the time Rebecca had cornered him outside the women's dormitories and tried to kiss him. She had looked beautiful that night, he recalled, not so much the warrior as the woman. It was all those years ago that he had decided to give into temptation one day, not some tempestuous night in Augustine. It was then, yes then, that his first sin was born.

_Original sin_, he thought, hating his blasphemous humor. Priest came to the corner of the hall, one hand gliding along the smooth metal walls. The night was bare and cold. And he was alone-

"Priest!" She was very much like a phantom, coming to him out of the shadows.

It took him a minute to recognize her amidst the unsavory gloom. Rebecca had changed, of course. She was heavily pregnant now, her face much rounder, her sharp cheeks filled out. But her skin had lost its color, the dark of the city draining away the warmth that the desert sun had given her. Her hair was unbound, long enough to trail over her breasts and belly. She kept one hand atop her abdomen and she swayed a little when she walked.

_Graceless_, Priest told himself. He tried to remember how Shannon had looked when she carried Lucy. Different. She had seemed different to him. And happy. Full of their life and the life growing within her.

But apart from her plumpness, Rebecca appeared wasted. _Vampiric_. The comparison was inevitable. Priest tried to drive the idea from his mind, but it persisted. He thought of all the Familiars he had encountered, their bodies half-drained in their living death. She looked like them now.

There was a door held open behind her and Rebecca stepped away from it, letting it click closed. She moved into the middle of the corridor and stood toe-to-toe with him. It took all of Priest's strength and determination not to pull away from her. It took absolutely everything he had to stand still.

Rebecca tilted her head to look up at him. Her lips wobbled, but her jaw was set. "Hello," she said.

"Hello," Priest managed.

"I did not think you would still be in the city," she said.

"I am, for the most part," he paused, then asked, "How…how far along are you?"

Her mouth folded in a frown. "Eight."

"Another month left?"

"Maybe. If the baby does not come early. I've been sick…often. It wouldn't surprise me."

"Oh." He was unable to hold her gaze long, had to look at his feet. The walls were close around him, tight and narrow like the passages of a hive. He experienced a surge of claustrophobia, but only because she was standing near. What if someone happened to see them? Would this impromptu meeting be enough to build suspicion against him? Would anyone ever realize that she was carrying his child, that _he_ had done this to her?

He wore his guilt like a cloak and it covered him, put a seal over his mouth so that it was difficult to breathe. Priest was aware of her eyes on him. He thought he should say something, even if it was only good-bye. She deserved that, didn't she? She deserved more than he could ever give her.

Rebecca tried to catch his gaze again, but he wouldn't let her. Her mouth twisted and she pressed her lips together. "They are going to kill me, you know," she told him.

For a moment, his heart smacked against his ribcage. Priest shifted his feet and glanced at her quickly. She was serious. Dead serious.

"The law forbids any harm to come to the child," he said, his reply automatic, rattled off without feeling.

Rebecca's eyes were glassy. Fathomless. She had the look of the condemned about her. She had accepted something that he could not see. She had embraced a fate that was still unknown to him.

"The child, yes," she said, "but not me."

Her certainty unnerved him. Priest wanted to take her by the arms and shake her. The chapel bells had stopped ringing, the echo of their song dying with one final, triumphant swell.

"Do not be ridiculous," he said. "I spoke for you myself. The Monsignors will be lenient. They need you, after all. If you submit, if you give up the child and appear repentant, then I know you will be forgiven."

She was incredulous. Rebecca placed her other hand over her abdomen, a figure of obstinacy. She seemed to want to show him just how round her stomach was, what a burden every moment was for her. The air between them was cold enough to fog their breath. "You are very naïve," she said. "Have you learned nothing from me?"

"Sacrifice," Priest muttered. His paranoia was making him cruel and he hated the way he was treating her. Shannon would have expected better from him and he had always thought more of himself.

Rebecca nodded, a glimmer of her old strength returning, that hard, sharpened edge that made her so wondrously fierce. "Good," she said. "You understand then. I will not be forgiven. This is a sacrifice too, Priest. The Church has decided that they can do without me, even though it may hinder their war. I am going to die…as soon as the child is born. They are going to kill me."

He shook his head, rejecting her reasoning as best he could. Down the hall, one of the electric bulbs fizzled and burned out. The air smelled singed. Noxious. "I promise you-" he began.

"They've kept me locked in a cell for four months," Rebecca interrupted. "There is none of God's mercy in this."

"But don't you see," he begged, "it's all for your own safety, your own well being…and the child's. They are trying to protect you. They want to restore you to what you were. Before…before all this. It will be over soon and then you will realize. You will-"

"If you truly wanted to protect me, you'd take me away from this place. Now."

For a moment he was lost. Speechless. The frank sincerity in her eyes, along with the small hint of fear, was enough to undo him. Was Rebecca actually frightened? Priest didn't think he could live with that. Her quiet terror was too real to him, made all the more awful by her courage, which still sought to quell her errant pangs of weakness.

She didn't want to ask this of him, he realized. He was her last resort. A wild chance at salvation. She thought that her life was forfeit and she was asking him to save her. But what could he do?

In an instant, Priest ran through his options, each one more implausible than the last. Where would they go if he took her away? He imagined taking her home to Shannon and Owen, her stomach swelled with his child, trying to explain, trying to lie, again. And Rebecca would be found, of course, even if she went out into the Wastelands. A desperate flight would do her no good, only make her look more guilty. And him. They would see and know his guilt too. Was she not better off here? Could she not come to understand, in time, that she would be safe?

Perhaps she doubted herself. Perhaps she doubted the Church. Priest didn't know which was worse, but he remained steadfast.

It would be horrible, denying her again. He did not know if his perception of her fragility was a delusion or not, but it still bothered him. Priest didn't think he could live with her hatred. He did not want to disappoint her. He did not want to stand in the shadows while she endured the hurt that should have been shared between them.

Priest raised his hand, intending to touch her, but his strength failed him. Instead, he let the eager coldness sweep through his heart and he tried to forget the few sweet things he had said to her once, when she reminded of Shannon.

Not now, though. Rebecca could never be Shannon now.

"There is nothing I can do for you," he said. "I know you must hate me and I accept your scorn. I embrace it. But please, _please _believe me when I say that you are safe here. If I thought otherwise, I would take you away without hesitation. You know that. You know that I have only acted for your benefit, and for…for," and here he paused, dropped his voice as low as he could, "for the child, as well."

Rebecca met his sympathetic gaze with fire. She almost looked as she had so many years ago, when Priest had first been brought before her as a novice and she was wild and cruel and unrepentant. And it was still true of her, he realized. Rebecca knew what she was. She had never been lost. She had never doubted. But what was her reward for such constancy now? A child that she could not keep. A lover who did not believe her.

Priest wished that he could look beyond himself and only at her, but blindness still closed his eyes. He could not see her and he could not possibly see what was going to happen.

Rebecca did, though.

"You are a fool," she said. "And someday, when you realize it, the pain will be unimaginable." But there was no harshness in her voice when she spoke. Her tone had lost its usual condemnation and instead, resonated with aching sadness.

_She pities me more than she does herself, _Priest thought. That bothered him a little. Crawled under his skin and made his heart beat faster.

"You have nothing to be afraid of," he insisted.

Rebecca's face darkened, but then inexplicably, it became bright, a ready smile shaping her pale lips.

"The baby's moving," she said breathlessly. "Here. Feel."

Her grip on his hand was strong and she placed his palm directly on the round curve of her belly. Priest flinched, remembering all the times he had done the same thing with Shannon when she had been carrying Lucy. This was wrong, he knew. Unnecessary. He couldn't feel the life inside her and experience the yearning for his child that would forever be denied.

Priest pulled away. He wrenched his hand from hers with more force than he had intended and took a staggering step back.

And for the first time, Rebecca looked truly hurt, more so than she ever had when he first took her or when he had abandoned her to the mercy of the Monsignors.

"I'm sorry," he said, but the apology was dead. No balm to soothe a weeping soul.

Rebecca sighed and folded her hands over her stomach. "There's only one more thing that I want from you," she said, "Perhaps I have no right to ask this, but I am selfish. Please don't blame me for my selfishness."

"I never would."

She looked up at him, the hard lines of her face softened, her scars fading in the shadows. She was gone then, even though he didn't know it. She had already been taken away.

"Will you love the child and me?" she asked.

And Priest knew that there was only one answer he could give. "I can't," he replied.

It ended then. They were finished.

Rebecca turned back towards the door of her cell. The bells were sounding in the chapel belfry again, low and mournful. A final, pitiful wail. Rebecca paused on the threshold, one arm stretched around her stomach, supporting the child within that he knew she loved, despite the unfortunate sorrow the baby had brought her.

Her eyes were empty when she looked back at him. Her face placid. She did not seem afraid, anymore. And she did not seem sad.

"Good-bye, Priest," Rebecca said. She left him alone in that corridor.

He never saw her again.

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, Priest was called to another private audience with the Monsignors. He arrived at Orelas's study noticeably breathless, a sheen of ugly sweat making his palms slick and slippery. The room itself held none of the practiced solemnity he had learned to equate with the ruling clergy. Orelas stood by one of the high, stained glass windows, consulting with Chamberlain in a languid, drawling tone. Both men wore half-smiles. Orelas had his arms folded across his middle. Chamberlain flicked his hands in a subdued gesture. They laughed and the sound was steely, rolling around Priest's chest like a jagged stone.<p>

He stood just inside the doors of the study and kept one hand clenched over the knob. A sickness settled in his stomach. It lingered and grew. He wondered how Rebecca felt now, her face pale, the luster in her eyes lost. Was it his fault that she was suffering so?

Priest's fingers trembled over the knob. _I should tell them_, he thought. _Even if it won't help her. I should just tell them now. Now._

"Priest." Orelas acknowledged him with a mild nod. Raising his hand, he beckoned him closer with all the guile of a patient predator.

Priest strode into the room and stopped a few feet in front of Orelas's hulking desk. His confidence was an affront and he hated himself for it.

Chamberlain offered him a glance that was distanced, an appraising sort of stare that made Priest second guess his own steadfast opinion of the man. There was surprising resilience in the way the old man held himself. He looked unnaturally resolute. Earnest.

Priest focused his own gaze on the smooth surface of the desk. The polished wood reflected the colored glow of the stained-glass windows, leaving small blotches of shining red and blue and yellow on the mahogany. Priest despised the gaudiness. His brows bunched together, a frown digging into his lips.

"Monsignors," he said, giving them all of his coldness.

Orelas sniffed once. "A bit of bad news for you, I'm afraid," he said, his tone so obnoxiously casual. "Your old mentor, Priestess, died last night."

His vision swam. Dots of black. A quick glimpse of her face. _Good-bye, Priest_. That was the very last thing she had said to him. Because she knew…had tried to warn him. He had looked the other way. Ignored it all…

_A sin of omission._

"Her pregnancy was troublesome," Orelas explained. He slapped his hand down on the back of his chair, his palm making a rude sound against the wood. "She was sickly, we've been told. Went into labor early. The child was delivered, but they could not stop the bleeding. There's nothing more to be said. Nothing to be done. I am sorry for your loss. I know you were apprenticed to her, for a time."

Priest remained silent. _Fight back the tears. Fight them. _

"The rest of your comrades need not be informed of the unseemly details," Orelas said. He turned his head to the side and a patch of red from the window stained his chin. "We will devise something suitable to tell them, and you will take over command of the Order. Everything will be settled accordingly, don't you see?"

Priest's lips moved. He searched for a single word, a noise. He had to give them something. Anything. "Yes," he said at length.

A minute or two passed. He was aware of their eyes, their judgment, their condemnation. And what they had done to her, Rebecca. What they had dared to do…

Bile rose in his throat. He hadn't listened to her.

"The child?" he asked numbly, knowing that his curiosity was too direct, a hint of smoke where there was surely fire.

Chamberlain feigned concern. "A suitable home will be found," he said, echoing Priest's own words. It was akin to mockery and Priest felt the sting of it.

Vaguely, he wondered if Rebecca had given him a son or a daughter.

_You will never know._

Orelas shifted behind his desk and Priest thought he saw a glimpse of triumph in the old man's soul-sick eyes.

"Do you understand, Father?" the Monsignor asked him.

All the blood rushed into Priest's head. How had it happened? Had it been quick and painless? Had she suffered? Did Rebecca fight them before they killed her? Or had she submitted? Somehow, he thought it would be worse if she fought them.

"Yes, Monsignor," he said.

Orelas dismissed him with a nod.

As Priest moved back towards the door, he was aware of Chamberlain shadowing his steps. The man fell into stride next to him and when they reached the door, he stepped in front of Priest, all deception and delusion gone from his gaze, his eyes sharpened by sincere disappointment and perhaps, just perhaps, a trace of reproach.

"Her penance is over," Chamberlain whispered. He pulled the heavy door open. "But yours, I'm afraid, is just beginning."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>This will be the last Priest POV chapter, along with Rebecca's final appearance. However, the exact nature of her death will be revealed in chapter twenty-six. I won't leave anyone in the dark, I promise. ;)

Thanks for stopping by and taking the time to read! If you have a free moment, please leave me a review. I cherish any and all feedback.

The next installment is currently in the works and should be posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well!


	24. Part XXIV Forgiveness

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part twenty-four of "Cross". I wasn't sure if I'd have the time to get this chapter posted before the holidays, but luckily, I was able to finish it up. And I certainly wouldn't want to make my readers wait two weeks for an update. ;) As always, I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to my awesome readers and reviewers, **Lystan, FireChildSlytherin5, saichick, Mss Heart of Swords01, Lonely Bleeding Liar, **and **TrinideanFan**. Also, I would like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts lists so far. You guys are the best! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XXIV Forgiveness **

Priestess took advantage of Marcus's momentary distraction. It was a small gift. A window of opportunity and with it came a flash of brilliant hope. Determination took root in her chest, rushing through her body along with the heady release of adrenalin. She set her jaw. She braced her forearms on the dusty floorboards and kicked out her legs. Her boots caught Marcus behind the knees. He was swept off his feet, his head smacking against the lip of the overturned table.

Priestess did not wait to see if he had been knocked unconscious. With a fierce grunt, she pushed herself up, crawling over to Priest who still lay slumped against the wall, rolling his head from side to side. Priestess could see the whites of his eyes, his pupils wildly dilated. She pressed her gritty hand to his jaw and shook him. A thumbprint from her bloodied fingers stained his chin. Priest blinked once, and then seemed to come back to himself.

"We need to go," Priestess ordered. Her voice was low, a pathetic sound that grated in the back of her desert-dry throat. The tremulous roar of the motorcycles was growing closer and she was overwhelmed with the promise of salvation, coming to them through the dusk and despair of their broken world.

"We need to go," she repeated, this time more urgently. Priestess helped Priest to his feet. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, her flesh prickling as she imagined Marcus beginning to stir behind them. She hadn't bought them much time and she wasn't foolish enough to think that she could actually win a battle against him. The red-haired Priestess-Rebecca-had taught her many things over the years, including when to retreat. There was no shame in running away sometimes, as they had in Sola Mira all those years ago. There was no shame in choosing life over the dubious glory of martyrdom.

Only one door led in and out of the room. Priestess used her shoulder to open it, dragging Priest into a short corridor. Her perception of time was distorted and she was surprised to see a cold night sky through the windows on the left-hand side of the hall. Although it was sometimes only a psychological ally, Priestess would have given anything to have just a glimpse of the sun. Her bones ached from the rotten dampness of the drainage ditch and she was keenly aware of just how cramped her muscles had become from crouching in that vent. Priest's weight was heavy against her. It wasn't until halfway down the hall that he regained his senses. Dropping his arm from her shoulders, he glanced behind them to where the flickering light of the smashed lantern still burned.

"He isn't coming," he muttered and started to take a step back in the direction of the control room.

Priestess grabbed hold of his sleeve and tugged. "We can't win this."

Priest pressed the heel of his palm to his bruised head. "Still…"

"We have reinforcements," she promised. "He won't get away."

Priest blinked, his eyes pale slivers in the darkness. "But I came alone," he insisted.

Priestess felt her heart drop a notch. A maddened pulse beat in the base of her throat. "We're not alone," she told him, suddenly glad for the chaotic noise of the approaching motorcycles.

Priest was still dazed, but he lurched forward towards the end of the corridor. Priestess followed him and they emerged onto the outpost's main street. The moon was about half full, giving them more than enough light to see by. The old storefronts and burnt out buildings were painted a marbled silver. The distant windmill, still faithfully churning away at the stale air, looked like some pagan token, a totem erected by lesser heathens to appease what gods they could.

Standing in the middle of the street, with beads of sand sticking to her mud-slicked boots, Priestess felt alone and exposed. She was unarmed, a stranger in this vile, vast desert. Prey for a larger predator. For a moment, weakness assailed her, human instinct pushing her towards flight. But Priestess stood her ground. This was a night of reckoning, she realized. A time when truths became whole and the world looked for a savior.

Priest was only a few paces away from her, scanning the flat horizon beyond the main street. Priestess followed his gaze, squinting. She could easily pick out the neon blue headlights of a dozen or so motorcycles, and she thought she recognized the large, hooded figure that sat hunched on the foremost bike.

_Seth. God, oh God, it had to be Seth!_

She uttered a faint cry of relief, a hot stickiness trailing down her cheek that could have been tears. Or sweat.

"They're here," she told Priest breathlessly, watching as the bikes wove expertly across the rough terrain. "How did they know to find us?"

"They didn't," Priest replied with resigned harshness.

He pointed to the plains surrounding the outpost, where a vamp pack stampeded towards the road, corralled on both sides by the charging bikes.

And then Priestess understood. There was no miracle in this, only a remarkable coincidence that might very well save their lives…or kill them all.

"Seth rendezvoused with the others," Priest muttered, fingering his daggers. "He must've gone after the vamp pack and driven them here for the kill."

Priestess's mouth went dry. "We're in their way," she said.

Priest said nothing. With a casual flick of his thumb, he separated his daggers and tossed her one. The cold steel was comforting in her hand. She gripped the handle until her knuckles turned bone white.

* * *

><p>Priestess experienced only a brief moment of panic. It rushed upon her with all the relentless guile of a fever, pushing the boundaries of her consciousness into delirium. Sweat drenched her brow and the dagger slipped a little in her hand. Her thoughts were hectic, a chaotic clutter of images. She remembered the night Rebecca had first taken her to Jericho, and how real her fear had been then, when she realized that violence was fluid, slipping into the cracks and crevices of humanity, eroding life, bringing death…<p>

Priestess shut her eyes and felt her heart pulsing against her skull. Something else remained within her, alongside the fear, a small spark that lit the blaze of resilience and she stood firm and she stood fast.

_Focus. _

It had been Rebecca who had first told her that, who had pounded the motto into her mind throughout each hour of torturous training, who had screamed it from the top of her lungs when they were on the front lines, who had whispered it when strength was failing and all hope seemed lost.

Priestess opened her eyes. "Focus," she muttered, feeling the last of her damning fear slip away. "Focus."

The riders had already herded the vampires into the narrow main street and the pack was wild, running helter-skelter down the dusty road, crashing blindly into the old buildings, falling, trampling each other. Their throaty cries warred with the incessant whir of the bikes until all the noises of the night were indistinguishable, jumbled together into one discordant whole that made Priestess's ears ache.

_Focus._

She did not wait until the first of the vampires was within reach, but rather, rushed forward straight into the oncoming pack. It was only after she had thrust her dagger into the neck of one of the beasts, severing its slippery windpipe, that Priestess realized she was looking for some manner of revenge. Or redemption. The driving force behind her adrenalin, behind the tumultuous tide of strength and resistance, went beyond her warrior's instincts. In each mindless instant, the need doubled.. Her body moved of its own accord, years of training and muscle memory guiding her each assault. Priestess used her dagger to slice the tendons in one vampire's knee and when the creature floundered, she pulled its head back until she heard a satisfying snap. A large, hulking male swerved around her right flank and kicking back, she managed to drive the heel of her boot straight into the vampire's throat. The beast gurgled and choked, his shriek dissolving into a hissing gasp as she stuck her knife through the thin film of skin that covered one of his empty eye sockets.

The odor of spilled blood made the air rank. Acrid. It was the scent of iron and metal, infused with something more primal, the raw stench of life. Priestess took a single step back, only to realize that she had allowed herself to become surrounded. The grey bodies of the vampires jostled around her, coming close enough so that she could feel the slick touch of their reptilian hides and see the blue-black veins that crawled beneath their skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Priest, who had his back to one of the buildings. He raised his foot and brought it down ruthlessly, crushing the chest of one prone vampire. But it was not enough. The circle was tight around them. The pack, driven into a frenzy, assailed them relentlessly.

Again, Priestess thought of death, but the notion itself was vague, drifting through her mind, a cloud passing over the bright moon. Her mouth tightened in a fierce frown and she pushed her way through the savage surge of beasts, burying her knife in the taut abdomen of one vampire just before the creature could sink its fangs into her cheek. She fought her way to Priest until they were side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with the black promise of mortality bearing down upon them.

Would she be able to tell him? she wondered. Should he know now, in this small space of borrowed time, that she loved him too? Priestess thought of all the little graces he had gifted to her, the instances in her life which were blessed because of his existence alone. She cherished his friendship and she cherished what it had become, a love that had grown, a love that they had both unknowingly nurtured. The burden of that secret almost seemed like a blight to her, a stain that would seep from this life into the next. Priestess did not want him to be uncertain. She wanted Priest to know that he had always been loved. She wanted to give back to him the grace that he had given to her. And she didn't want either of them to die alone, on that fetid night in that haunted town, together, but forever divided…

Priestess opened her mouth. She turned her head to the side and tried to look at him, tried to find the man who was not the warrior, but the lost husband, the deprived father, the boy who had been taken from his home and somehow brought to her.

_Why now? _she asked herself desperately, even as the pack closed around them, _why couldn't I tell him before?_

"Priest." She wanted to reach out and touch him. Her hand found his shoulder, her dirtied fingers brushing his neck and he looked at her.

And as her eyes met his, she knew that he only needed her silence.

"I know," Priest said quietly. "Rowan, I know."

And for an instant, she had hope. He had given her hope…

A vampire streaked past her on the right. Priestess caught the blur of fiendish movement in her peripheral vision. She struck, somewhat blindly, and slashed the creature's bicep with the tip of her dagger. The vampire made a low, clicking noise in the back of its throat and seemed to leer at her, strings of saliva dripping from its razor fangs. It took a single step back, hopping to the side. Priestess was almost knocked off her feet when the beast lunged at her. She threw herself to the left at the last possible second, but the vampire still managed to catch her jaw with its knee. Her teeth rattled painfully, blood spurting from her nose, which was certainly broken. Priestess reeled backwards, the ground coming up beneath her. Her senses were jarred and the world exploded around her, ceding to pale flashes of light and whispered echoes. It took her mind a moment to understand the gravity of her situation and she was only slightly disappointed when she realized that death was indeed coming to claim her. Her own body, the temple of her flesh, would be laid out as a feast for parasites, the devil's own leeches.

Vaguely, she thought she heard Priest call to her and she rolled onto her side, her movements feeble, but not passive.

_Get up._

Rebecca had said that, hadn't she? _Get up. Get up. _

How many times had Priestess heard that phrase and despised it? How many times had she witnessed Rebecca taunting a helpless novice with it, someone like Seth, who had been beaten and bloodied and brought to the very brink of life?

_Get up. Get up._

Priestess was surprised by the sudden rush of tears to her eyes. _You tried_, she thought, regretting her misplaced hatred towards the woman she had considered cruel. _You wanted to prepare us. I didn't believe you._

Rebecca had promised, in her strange, hostile way, that Priestess would understand someday, that the truth, with all its painful absurdities, would be realized when she least expected it. Lying there, with her cheek pressed against the stinging sand, she knew that she owed a debt to the woman who had carried the weight of the Order on her shoulders for years. And Priestess had dared to hate her for it…_oh God, oh God no…_

"I'm sorry." The words left her lips as a prayer, a final plea for forgiveness. "I'm so sorry, Rebecca."

She was prepared to die then. Her soul had readied herself, all the loose ends of her life severed and cast away, leaving her as clean and vulnerable as a newborn child. Priestess tried to remember something of the prayers the Church had taught them, but her mind was mercifully blank. The vampire that had knocked her off her feet was circling her body. She took a deep breath and enjoyed the echo of it as it filled her lungs. And she thought of Priest.

The roar of the motorcycle was much closer this time, rising up in the night as a vengeful war cry, bringing Priestess out of her stupor. She saw him then, Seth, plowing through the herd of vampires. When he was near to her, he maneuvered his bike so that the massive back tire lifted off the ground. As it came down, it crushed the body of her attacker. The dying vampire let out a wretched squeal and gore streaked the sandy soil.

The interlude gave her enough time to gather her strength. Priestess tried to raise herself up, planting her elbows in the dirt. Seth reached his hand down to her and she took it, pulling her feet underneath her. She was dizzy when she finally stood, but alive. The blood from her nose had reached her lips and she spat away the taste.

Seth grinned at her. "This wasn't exactly the reunion I was expecting," he said.

"It never is," Priest grunted. He was standing on the other side of Seth's motorcycle, panting.

But Priestess ignored them both. She was swept up in the vision before her, which seemed almost dream-like, a scene that was both familiar and yet so very foreign she almost second-guessed her sight. The rest of the riders had finally arrived in the main street of the outpost and were dispatching, with relative ease, the lingering vampires. At such close quarters, Priestess recognized more than a few of them. There was one of the twins, his brother having recently been killed by Marcus at Jericho. She saw some of the older ones, the Priests who had been teenagers when the Church found them and took them from their homes. And grey-eyed Esther, who was perhaps the youngest, and the only remaining female member of the clergy besides Priestess.

It was with quiet awe that she observed their movements, the calculated thrusts of their daggers. The wild whir of a silver rope dart. Very little had changed, Priestess realized and the notion filled her with a strange sort of comfort. It was a restoration, a resurrection of what had long since been consigned to dust. Fresh tears stung her eyes, and she welcomed the baptism.

_My family_, she thought, and then, _Rebecca, please be proud of us. _

Her reverie was shaken, however, by Priest's usual urgency. He had slipped around Seth's bike and was pulling at her shoulder, bringing her back to a reality that was not so dreadful as before.

"We have to find him," he shouted over the wailing shrieks of the dying vampires.

"Who?" Seth asked, his expression somewhat hidden behind his thick goggles.

But Priestess already knew. "Marcus," she told him.

Their reunion was not yet complete.

* * *

><p>Priestess was stunned to see that the building that housed the outpost's sewer system was up in flames. But then she remembered the broken lantern and the oil spill which had spread a pool of fire across the control room floor. She looked doubtfully at the tendrils of curling smoke and the eager red tongues of the crackling inferno.<p>

"It's dangerous," she told Priest even as he strode towards the open door on the ground floor. "The building is old, the structure too unstable. We'd never make it in and out."

He didn't reply, but ducked inside the smoky passageway. Seth glanced at Priestess and raised an eyebrow.

"How brave are you feeling?" he asked her.

She could only shrug in response. After a moment's hesitation, the heat from the fire bathing her bruised and bleeding face, Priestess moved into the building. The blaze had only just begun to reach the corridor and she was acutely aware of the cinders which fell from the ceiling onto her hair. The sting of the ashes, however, was nothing compared to the smoke which clogged her lungs. Priestess pulled the collar of her coat over her nose and her mouth, her eyes burning as she groped her way through the dark.

"Priest!" she called. He did not respond. "Priest! Priest!"

She found him in the doorway to the control room where they had last seen Marcus. It was impossible to cross the threshold into the space, the fire having already devoured most of the walls. Priestess watched for a moment as the flames coiled around the old water pipes and valves. The iron glowed red hot and steam escaped through several leaking seams.

Priest was using his arm to block his nose and mouth, his eyes fixed on the spot where Marcus had fallen during their flight.

He was gone, of course. The enigma vanished, his mystery lingering in every shadow of the night.

Priestess latched onto his arm and tried to pull him back. "Another day," she shouted.

For a moment, she feared that he wouldn't listen to her, but then he met her gaze and nodded.

"All right," he said. "All right."

They made a mad dash for the exit, the walls of the building shuddering and crumbling around them, emerging at last into cool air of the quiet evening. The outpost was silent. The moon had already reached its zenith.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all have a wonderful, happy and safe holiday. The next installment is in the works and should be posted in ten days. Take care!


	25. Part 25 Missing

**Author's Note: **Happy New Year, everyone! I'm sorry I'm starting off 2012 with a slightly delayed update. The holidays were hectic, as usual, and I'm also in the midst of a rather intense history seminar which had been taking up way too much time. Please forgive my lateness!

Before we begin, I would just like to briefly thank all my readers and reviewers, **ShipsThatFly, saichick, Mss Heart of Swords01, 1993, FireChildSlytherin5, **and** Lystan**. Also, I would like to thank everyone who added this story to their favorites/author alerts lists. Your support and encouragement really means the world to me. I do hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 25 Missing **

"He's back."

Rowan looked up at Seth, squinting in the unwelcome glare of the fluorescent lights lining the walls of the refectory. She was working her fork through a piece of stringy meat, her stomach sour, the dryness of her lips and tongue giving her mouth a stale taste. Dirt had crawled beneath her cracked nails and she had forgotten to wash her hands before she ate. Her mother would not have approved.

Seth slid onto the long metal bench beside her, his black tunic smelling of sweat and maybe blood. He had just come off his shift on the outer walls of City Seven, where they had both been stationed for the past three months. The metropolis, which based its trade on iron rather than the less profitable cash crop of coal, was small when compared to the hulking might of Cathedral City, but prone to vampire attacks. Before they had arrived, the creatures had taken to scaling the sheer walls and wrecking havoc in the hovels of the poor who lived closest to the city limits. The bodies were piling up rather quickly and Rowan had been tasked with finding the cause of the sudden surge of attacks. After observing the hunting patterns of the local vampires, she had begun to suspect that there was a underground hive nearby. Seth seemed to agree with her, although they hadn't found any concrete evidence yet, after six solid weeks of searching every cave and gully and abandoned mine shaft.

Rowan stared at her meal. The few meager potatoes and slab of dried meat looked even less appetizing slapped on her cold metal tray. She stabbed one of the potatoes with the tines of her fork, only to have the roasted slice crumble, the remnants looking like white curds. A self-pitying sigh rose in her throat. She was tired. God, so damnably tired.

Seth's left shoulder pressed against hers as he rearranged himself on the bench. Shuffling about, he nearly upset her water canteen with his elbow. "Didn't you hear me?" he asked, excitement shaping his normally subdued tone. "He's come back!"

Rowan rubbed her fingers together, exhaustion dampening her curiosity. Sometimes she envied Seth's resilience, which knew no bounds. Several long years at war had not yet made a hardened veteran of him. Rowan, on the other hand, didn't feel quite so lucky.

"Who?" she asked, indulging his enthusiasm just because she liked to see him smile.

Seth rewarded her with a flash of a grin. The fluorescent lights cast wide shadows over his face. "Priest," he said. "Priest is back."

Rowan blinked, and, in a moment of startling stupidity, asked, "Which one?"

"_Your_ Priest." This time, when Seth reached over to squeeze her wrist, he did overturn her metal canteen. A thin pool of water collected in the ridges of the table, dripping down the sides. "Remember? You two were attached at the hip when we were novices. And you were both together on campaign in that wretched Wasteland outpost last summer. He was reassigned with Priestess, went to Jericho and Augustine and then to the larger hives. But the Church _finally_ sent him out here. He's been asking for you, Rowan, since he got back. Aren't you coming?"

Seth was staring at her, sitting close enough to notice the heat that colored her face. Rowan was surprised when emotion, that long conquered foe, roused itself within her. Her eyes suddenly felt warm, her heartbeat pulsing behind her lids. She blinked again and the lights overhead blurred. Her fingertips were wet, resting in the puddle of water from her spilled canteen. She suddenly wished she had taken the time to wash the dust and grime from her hands.

_Priest_, Rowan thought, allowing the name to ring with all the lofty glory of church bells in her mind. _Your Priest_.

She was off the bench in an instant, her thighs slamming into the low table, rattling her tray. "Where?" she asked, her voice ragged, lost to every desire she had repressed, every thought and dream she had abandoned when he had been taken from her.

"Downstairs, at headquarters. He says he wants to speak to us."

She fled from the refectory, her half-eaten meal discarded, the echo of her spilled water still pinging off the floor with a liquid echo.

Seth followed her, his presence dogged. Rowan was irked by his curiosity and she quickened her stride, putting a few good paces between them. An insidious ache had begun to gnaw at her empty gut and as she walked, the pain grew, rolled around inside her until it reached her ribcage. She tried to breathe through the discomfort, but her careful common sense had relinquished its control on her body. Her skin was tingling, stung by a thousand tiny shocks. Rowan walked faster. She turned a corner into the main corridor of the monastery she had been garrisoned in and followed the hall down to the chapel, which had been transformed into a war room only because it was the largest space in compound. The walls were a rusted iron here, the traditional stone pillars and columns having long been abandoned in favor of practicality. The statues of the saints, tucked irregularly into the hollowed out alcoves, were likewise sculpted from metal. Rowan secretly hated their plaintive stares, which inspired nothing of faith in her, but only served to plant the seed of judgment.

_Yes_, she told them, _I missed him. I longed for him. But it's not a sin. You cannot make it a sin…_

Walking quickly, she missed the first of the steps that led from the hall into the vestibule. Rowan stumbled, her arms failing and managed to catch herself before she fell. And for a moment she stood there, painfully aware of the chapel doors which loomed off to her right. She needed a minute. She needed just one minute.

It had been a long time, she conceded, since she had last seen Priest. Their separation had been agonizing at first, but years of training had taught Rowan to adapt. She had learned to live without him over the intervening months, surviving on bits of gossip and rumor alone. They heard from him, sometimes, when he was with Priestess, stationed at some distant outpost, scouting the hives. Surprisingly enough, Rowan preferred it when she didn't receive his messages. It was better that way, the divide between them solidified, the break wrenching, but appropriate. She wasn't forced to mourn his absence when her heart wasn't tempted with a reminder of him. She could build her life around new rituals that didn't include Priest. She could make herself forget, the way she had been taught to, forget his voice, his rare smile, the way they would sit together, close enough to feel him breathe…

_Breathe._

Rowan was disappointed by her intemperance now. She knew she secretly wanted a joyful reunion filled with embraces and ecstatic greetings and maybe, just maybe, a few tears. It would be nice to know that he had missed her, but sentiment was unnecessary. Unnecessary, but not unlooked for…

Seth caught up with her then, his heavy boots clambering down the concrete steps. He paused once before he headed towards the chapel doors, glancing over his broad shoulder at her.

"Are you nervous?" he asked.

Rowan disliked the insinuation in his tone, but she couldn't condemn him for it. She tried to smile. The skin around her lips was tight and she thought her face might crack.

Seth was gracious. A true gentleman. He said nothing as they both headed into the chapel, the great creaking sweep of the swinging doors matching Rowan's unsteady heartbeat.

_I missed Priest too much_, she told herself, the reproachful gazes of the statues still burning into her back. _I shouldn't have missed him at all, I shouldn't have…_

And then he was standing there before her, quite unremarkable, a ghost restored to his flesh. Rowan did not hesitate. She took a step towards him and was happy when he extended his hand to her. Their fingers interlocked, the pressure from his thumb nearly crushing her knuckles. He lowered her eyes to meet hers, some muted acknowledgement in his glance. A smile from him. Another from her.

Rowan's heart swelled once more, and then finally settled into an easy rhythm.

_He's missed me too_, she thought. And just like that, all her wishes were repaid, the distance between them falling away into the realm of memory.

"How are you?" Priest asked.

She was surprised when she recognized his voice so easily. "Well," she said, wondering if he felt the same about her, if he had tried desperately to remember her face, her every feature, as she often had with him.

"Enjoying your deployment in City Seven?" he quipped.

A mild frown. She employed irony. "It's fantastic."

That earned her a laugh, something she warmed to. Priest released her hand and patted her forearm with his palm. His calluses were rough on the sleeve of her coat. "It is good to see you," he said.

Rowan only nodded. The feeling, she knew, was indeed mutual.

She was annoyed when she realized that she wouldn't have a private moment with Priest. Their time together had been stolen by some undefined sense of urgency. With a half-smile, he stepped away from her, gesturing at the pews that had been pushed up against the walls of the chapels. There were at least half a dozen other Priests seated there, scattered around the room. Rowan quickly found a space next to Marcus, his green eyes quick and alive with the energy of his curiosity. Priest alone remained standing in the center of the room. His lean, lanky frame cast long shadows over the cement floor. Looking at him more closely, Rowan realized that he had lost weight, the broadness in his shoulders gone. And pale, he was pale now, the scars on his cheek and neck showing gossamer like a spider's web.

Acid churned in her stomach. Change worried her. She looked at Marcus and saw the intensity of his closed expression. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned to her, giving voice to the faint unease that menaced the darker recesses of her mind.

"I wonder," he whispered, "where is Priestess?"

Rowan's blood ran cold. She knew then what was missing, what was off, what was wrong. The red-haired Priestess had been deployed with Priest. They had been stationed together first at Jericho and then at Augustine, only to end up on an obscure reconnaissance detail up by the northernmost hives.

Rowan blinked. A new ache gnawed at her insides, made her double over and press her fists against her gut. She felt surprisingly insecure, her mild worry transforming itself into a tyrant that lorded over her weak peace of mind. She almost hated Marcus for pointing out the obvious to her. Where was Priestess? God, where was she?

A respectful hush settled over the room as Priest prepared to address them. He was standing before the wide, circular table they usually gathered around to plot campaigns and arrange sentry shifts and revise maps to include the most recent migrations of the vampire herds. But the table was bare of its clutter now. Priest ran his hands over the surface of it, his head bowed. Rowan knew that he was thinking. Waiting. Steadying himself as she had also done outside in the vestibule.

She took another deep breath, suddenly nervous for him.

Marcus elbowed her in the side. "It isn't good news," he remarked, his voice warm and infused with his own sense of predatory mirth, which always came at the expense of others.

Rowan stiffened. She wouldn't reward him with her attention.

After a few minutes, Priest looked up at them. His eyes were blank. His mouth curved in a solemn frown. "The Monsignors," he said, "have sent me from Cathedral City to speak with you. This is not a pleasant errand for me, nor do I think my message will be gladly received by _most_ of you." He paused, his gaze cutting over to Rowan for an instant. "The truth, I'm afraid, is that I have unfortunate news. Bad news. We are all soldiers here. And we are also something of a family."

His words stirred a few stale memories in Rowan. An image flashed through her mind, Sage sitting at the kitchen table back at their Wasteland hovel, his mouth greasy with their mother's stew, the napkin balled up on his lap, forgotten. Rowan ran her tongue along her teeth, trying to savor the taste of the memory. But the vision was distanced from her, only a picture seen in a book. When she looked around her and saw the members of the Order gathered, the notion of family acquired a bit more reality.

Her eyes landed on Seth, his elbows perched on his knees. The twins, not seated together, but across from each other on opposite benches. Esther, who was only seventeen and newly ordained, the cross still red on her brow. Marcus, with his sharp green eyes, those hunks of jade set deep into his skull. And Priest, who had taken on a strange resonance, a hint of authority.

Rowan's heart dropped into her stomach. What was missing from this scene? _Who _was missing?

And she knew. She knew then. A mother. _Priestess._

The silence that stretched over the chapel was fatal, more potent than any death knell. Rowan felt an intense pressure building up inside her chest. Her lungs contracted. She couldn't breathe…

Priest ran his hands over the steel table-top once more, his palms squeaking on the metal. "Priestess is dead," he said, delivering the news with almost no ceremony. His voice was automatic, processed, as if it were being bled through a computer. "She was killed while on a reconnaissance mission in Sola Mira. I was with her. A hive guardian cornered us in the one of the passages. Priestess led him away, distracted him with a flare. As she was running, she became disoriented and fell. I found her by the base of the hive. Neck broken. I gave her last rites. She was buried with honor in Cathedral City. And we should honor her now too, our martyr, with prayer. Let us bow our heads, in the name of the Father…"

They complied, stiff necks creaking, hands folded. Rowan stared at her knuckles as she listened to Priest recite a psalm. Immortality was promised, through faith, through the resurrection of the soul. No mention was made of damnation. Rowan breathed in slowly through her nose, trying to rid herself of the new tightness in her throat. Priestess was gone and she felt empty inside.

Lifting her chin a little, she dared to glance at Priest, heard him fumble only once over the words of prayer. To her, he looked like a pantomime, repeating something he had been told to say. She thought of him standing on a cliff on the side of the hive, the bloody truth laid out a his feet, Priestess, her body appropriately mangled. Had Priest cried for her? Had he struggled to pronounce her last rites? Had he held her hand, even though she was already dead, to feel for some fleeting pulse of life? Had he wished, in the back of his heart, that she would come alive? Had he blamed himself?

The muscles in Rowan's neck ached. She realized that she was withholding a sob, crying not for Priestess, but for Priest. It had been quick, this end. Tragedies usually were. For the first time, Rowan experienced a cold thrill. Mortality had laid its clawed hand on her shoulder, pressed itself deep into her corruptible flesh. How long had Priestess been dead and buried? Had the worms begun to eat her already? Was the martyr rewarded with a final humiliation, her unrepentant strength finally failing as she laid prone in her coffin?

Someone uttered a faint whimper. It was Esther, who had always looked up to Priestess. Seth slung his arm around her shoulder, his own grief decidedly muted. He had never cared for Priestess much after she broke his jaw.

Priest concluded his prayer with the Sign of the Cross. For a moment he stood there, working a muscle in his jaw, his lips moving wordlessly. It was Marcus who spoke for him instead.

"I told you," he whispered, pinching Rowan's side. "I just _knew_ something was wrong."

His fiend's delight was enough to nauseate her. "Stop," she said through gritted teeth. Why was she angry now? What had changed?

Marcus respected her rage. He fell into gloomy silence, although she did not trust the anxious glow that hid behind his hooded eyes.

Esther, who was still touched by the impudence of her youth, rubbed her hand over her nose. "What happens now?" she asked in thick tone. "She was our leader."

Priest turned to look at her over his shoulder. "It has been decided," he said. "The Monsignors have handed down their orders. I will assume Priestess's place and conduct this campaign to its conclusion. But you should know…you must know, this task wasn't looked for. I would rather…I would give so much to have Priestess here instead. She was…worthy...our champion."

"Here! Here!" one of the older Priest's cried from the back.

Rowan thought the noise was inappropriate. She pictured Priestess, their champion, lying facedown in a pool of her own stinking blood. Neck broken, of course.

The contrast between life and death was sickening. She had the sudden urge to vomit.

Priest folded his hands over the lip of the table, his arms braced at strange angles. The way he regarded his audience was surprisingly guarded and Rowan studied his expression.

_It's as if he doesn't believe himself_, she thought, her sympathy for him very real in that moment. She almost wanted to rush to him and take his head onto her breast, let him rest his weathered cheek near her heart which had, for so long, beat only for him.

_He's been shaken_, she observed. _Badly upset by something_.

Although Priest was standing on his own two feet, Rowan thought that the ground might be tilted beneath him. He kept shifting his weight to steady himself. She heard the creak of his leather boots every time he moved.

"I am sorry," he said, offering them an apology that seemed out of place. "I am sorry for this. But Priestess would not expect us to mourn."

_And I won't_, Rowan told herself fiercely. _I won't. I won't. I won't…_

"Guard shifts will run as usual tonight," Priest said. His face lost the last of its tepid color as he assumed the mantle of authority, took up Priestess's throne with all the unwillingness of a broken man. "We will meet again tomorrow to discuss future changes. For now, stand firm and fast. Godspeed."

It was finished. The matter dismissed with an almost bureaucratic coldness. As she stood, Rowan briefly thought of approaching Priest, rekindling the communion and unity that had been missing between them during their months of separation. But Seth was talking to him now, had been pulled aside out of the crowd.

Rowan wasn't jealous. She watched for a moment as Priest addressed the man, his head bowed low and close to Seth's ear. Only a few of his words made it back to her.

"The Monsignors," she heard him say, and, "an assignment for you."

Rowan turned on her heel, not anxious to intrude. As she walked out of the chapel with the others, the pressure in her chest exploded. She was thinking of her mother again, but this time, her face had been replaced with Priestess's, a bit of red-hair curling over her cross-stained brow. She held her neck oddly when Rowan saw her, as if it were snapped. And her eyes were sad, no fire in her tears, only sorrow.

Rowan was running then. She broke away from the crowd and rushed down the corridor, passed the statues of the saints, who no longer looked upon her with judgment, but regret.

Priestess gone. Priestess dead. Rowan started to weep, even as she ran. She cried and didn't really know why.

_I cursed her to Hell…._

Priestess gone, she thought, the words repeating themselves in her mind like some awful nursery rhyme. Priestess dead. _Priestess damned.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks so much for reading! The next installment is in the works and should be posted in the next ten days. Have a great week, everyone!


	26. Part XXVI Ashes and Dust

**Author's Note: **Woohoo! I've reached two hundred reviews! That's so amazing. I can't possibly express how grateful I am. So thank you to all my readers and reviewers, **Lystan, FireChildSlytherin5, saichick, Mss Heart of Swords01, Lonely Bleeding Liar** and **Jag**. And if you've added this story to your favorites/author alerts list, thank you as well! Your encouragement is truly appreciated. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XXVI Ashes and Dust**

The fires were wild, a wave of divine glory that swept through the haunted outpost, making light all those corners that were dark, teasing the night sky with a hint of heat that shimmered on the horizon like a mirage. They did not stop the blaze, but let it burn, building pyres on the main street to destroy the scattered, stinking bodies of the vampires. It was the work of the charnel house. It left the hands slick with oily blood and soured the stomach. Priestess did not bother to hide her disgust as she helped to pile the corpses on pyres. The charred flesh already reeked of decay even though the creatures were newly dead. But the wind was gracious, scattering the ashes on foreign plains, where the night buried them under a careless sky, irreverent to both the dead and those that yet lived.

There was very little room for conversation in their work, although Priestess was afforded some measure of grim satisfaction as she labored alongside her fellow Priests. They spoke through their silence. Occasional glances were exchanged. Smiles of recognition. She nodded in greeting to Esther, who had finally grown into a woman with thick yellow hair. It surprised her also when she noticed that several of the older Priests, those who had first been taken as novices when they were teenagers, had started to age, lines stretching the skin around their mouths, the hair at their temples a tell-tale grey. But there was nothing of diminished power about them, no. Priestess marveled at their strength and quiet industry, forged as much through years of training as in the time they had spent in menial labor, unable, like her, to find work elsewhere.

Her stomach was filled with a surge of warmth as she watched them work. She had never realized before how much of a family they were…until they had been taken from her. Reunions were strange things, not looked for, but desired nonetheless. Priestess felt the secret yearning inside her, the loss she had patiently nursed over the years, fulfilled in the space of a few precious moments. It was a miracle of sorts, a reward for her devotion to her brothers and sisters which had never wavered. once.

Cinders burned her exposed fingers as she heaved the last of the bodies onto a pyre. Some of the lower buildings had also caught fire, the blaze from the sewage plant spilling over onto the dry-wood timber of the other structures. Priestess stood back from the pyres and watched the skeletal rafters crumble, remembering what the outpost had once meant to her. Ironically enough, it had been the last place she had ever seen Rebecca alive…

A piteous roar sounded as the ceiling of one the buildings caved in, sending a spray of hot ashes into the air, the embers dancing in the dark like fireflies. Priestess watched the wreck and ruin, unmindful of the pain of her broken nose and the dried blood around her lips. Unknowingly, her hands folded themselves over her heart.

She was cleansed.

It was strange for her to feel peaceful in such a turbulent moment, but peace came and Priestess was too grateful to turn her cheek to it. She let it invade her body, seep through her pores until she was freed from all her tiresome aches and soreness. The rancid smell of the charred corpses blew by her and she smelled only the thick heat of the smoke as it spiraled like incense up to the moon. Each breath was a blessing. Each moment a renewal. She had come full circle. She had made her end a new beginning.

Priest came to her from out of the flickering shadows then, his touch gentle as his fingers lit upon her elbow.

Priestess looked at him, almost ashamed to smile. He had a smudge of ash on his forehead, a bruise rising on his scalp where Marcus had struck him, but his quiet majesty superseded all those small imperfections.

To her, he was still beautiful.

"We have some time until dawn," Priest murmured in an undertone that was barely discernible over the crackling fires. "I thought we ought to talk."

Priestess nodded in ready acquiescence. "I'd like that."

It was hard to find a place not ravaged by the blaze and they ended up walking down the road that led away from the outpost, where the cooling motorcycles had been parked in neat, orderly rows. Leaning on the seat of Seth's bike, they sat in silence for a minute, turning their faces away from the heat of the fire and into the mild, silky air of the pre-dawn desert. Priestess savored his nearness, his hand only a few inches from her thigh. But her contentment was poisoned by what she had learned from Marcus, the terrible truth that had jeopardized her faith in Priest and brought to her a new kind of darkness that was impenetrable.

And she knew that she would carry that darkness within her forever. It was a mark of the past, not easily discarded, and despite her jealousy (yes, she could admit now that it was jealousy) Rebecca's legacy did not deserve to be dismissed. Like Shannon's. Like Lucy's. They were a part of Priest, just as much as his love for her. Priestess could not choose what he held onto and what he let go of. It was not her place. Her duty remained only to him, to his love, which she could bear and return.

Unashamedly, her cheeks no longer stained with an uncertain blush, Priestess reached over and squeezed his hand, feeling the rough calluses and chapped skin, loving the whole of him, not just the bits she found beautiful. Lowering her head, she glanced at the trailing cracks in the sand, the veins of parched earth. She kept some pressure on Priest's hand, the warmth of his fingers making her palm tingle.

"Marcus told me," she explained. "He told me many things. You don't have to…"

"It's better if I do," Priest interrupted. His body jerked. For an instant, the connection between them was broken. "You are the only one I've ever owed the truth to," he continued, his knee nudging against her leg. "I've lied to myself by thinking that I could hide from weakness. Isolation is attractive for sinners. It detracts from guilt, lulls the wretched into false serenity. I'll be honest with you, Rowan, there were times when I was glad for our separation…all those years, they were convenient. I prefer to forget when I can. Her especially. She's the worst kind of specter, not exactly vengeful, but a mark on my soul, a stain that will never be washed away. I don't know how you can stand me. I'm obnoxious in my wickedness."

"Don't-" she began, but he was quicker.

"I am arrogant," Priest insisted, his face schooled by strict self-admonition. "What I did to her, to Rebecca—you know now her name was Rebecca? Yes?-the omission of truth was worse than the sin. The denial…God, I had so many opportunities to confess myself. Even now, you see I linger around the edge of things. I should say it, shouldn't I? We give words power when they speak them. I said that to Rebecca once. It's still true."

Priestess swallowed. She knew what was coming, of course and yet, that old fear awoke within her, fanged, sinister. There was something to be said for avoidance, she secretly agreed. It was a false god. No better than a mirage.

Unable to disguise her grimace, she glanced at Priest and held his gaze. "I'm listening," she urged, a slippery sickness in her gut.

Priest dropped his hand back over hers, his grip tightening until all the blood rushed to her fingertips. "I broke my vow of celibacy with Rebecca," he said, the echo of a sigh behind his words. "It was a mutual decision…a shared sin. The affair lasted several months until we discovered that she was pregnant. The end came, shortly after. She knew more than I did, understood things better, was so much wiser. She knew she couldn't run. That was the worst of it, I think, seeing her realize her own defeat, watching her…surrender to them. She did not ask me to protect her, but she wanted me to turn her into the Monsignors, remove any suspicion from myself. I did what she told me. I was a coward. I think she continued to protect me until the very last, until her love for our child grew more than her love for me. She wanted me to take her away, but I couldn't. I understood then that there was nowhere to go. The Church is insidious in its omnipotence. All-seeing. I left her there, with_ them_. And they were patient, of course. They waited until she had had the child before they killed her. It wasn't a martyr's death, so I'm told. It wasn't glorious. But she didn't suffer. There is some peace, at least, to be found in that."

Priestess listened to him speak, hypnotized by the eager rhythm of his voice, the way he pushed the words from his lips, trying to rid his body and soul of them. When it was over, she sat very still, her heart a mindless echo in her ears, and thought of Rebecca, who had been so strong. Rebecca, whom they had killed…

"How?" she asked, feeling the first stirrings of sympathy for the woman she had only hated. Her revulsion, she felt, was unworthy, a private sin that she wanted to sweep away from her soul. Rebecca had been so many things, but she didn't deserve to be abhorred. Slowly, Priestess managed to untangle herself from her memories and petty jealousy. But forgiveness came too late. Rebecca was only a pile of bones now, unlamented by all…except by him.

Priest closed his eyes for a minute and drew in a breath. A muscle twitched beneath his right eye and the light from the fire was like the dawn on his face, a tawny crimson that colored his flesh with blood shadows.

"It wasn't until a few years ago that I found out," he said. "A guard to Monsignor Chamberlain told me. He was working in the coal mines with me after he left the service of the Church. I could tell he was bitter and he wanted to talk. It took me a while to work it out of him, his reluctance was understandable, I suppose. But such a secret does not weigh lightly on the soul. Murder is pervasive. It taints. And he was still disturbed by it, troubled enough to confess it all to me. He told me he was there when they killed her. He said that they brought Rebecca before the Monsignors only minutes after she delivered the child…she still had blood on her legs. Orelas asked her once to name the father. She refused. They gave the order and one of the other guards put a bullet in her head. Just before she was executed, apparently, she asked if she had had a son or a daughter. I don't know if they told her."

"My God," Priestess murmured. Her head was heavy, the weight of it dragging down her neck until her shoulders and back began to ache. She leaned against Priest and he leaned against her and there they sat, together, lost to a grief that was shared.

A bullet in her head. A mother's final plea ignored. It was an unrighteous death. And it wasn't the death of a Priest, not the end that Rebecca, in all her wild, blazing glory, had ever deserved.

Priestess shut her eyes for a minute.

_I cursed her to Hell…_

She knew that her guilt was unimportant, eclipsed by the shame Priest himself battled. With some difficulty, she tried to repress that frantic fluttering within her. It was a herald of her own evil, the misconceptions she had wielded against Rebecca, who had been transformed from a dark memory into an innocent. But the past was an enigma to her already. Priest, who remained with her in the present, had had his own innocence damaged. She couldn't imagine what it had done to him, leaving both Rebecca and his child behind. The act was unfathomable and it had changed him.

Priestess dropped her chin onto his shoulder, listening to the hollow rush of his breathing. She wondered if he could sense her pity. She wondered if he knew that her jealousy had ceded to mercy. That was one lesson she had been forced to learn on her own, something that the Church had never dared to teach to its warriors. And true mercy, she knew, came from God alone. It was His singular blessing and it was hers to give now.

Priest shifted, his unease rupturing the seemingly sacred stillness of the moment. His muscles were tense, the sticky warmth from his body seeping through the coarse folds of his black tunic. She lifted her chin off of his shoulder and gave him space. Priest moved, one hand braced on the seat behind him, his elbow bent.

"I wish I could say that I considered telling you before," he said, "but the truth is, I didn't. I was frightened, not of the Monsignors, not of the Church and its impious wrath, but of you, you were the only judge I feared. Sometimes, at night, I would lay awake and imagine what you would say to me if you knew. You were never harsh with me, only sad. But I never thought that you would forgive me…because I can't forgive myself. My mind is still narrow, you see. I am selfish and cannot look beyond my fear. Do you wish now that I had told you from the beginning? Do you hate my lies and deceit that much, Rowan?"

She hesitated. God, oh God, she hesitated. His question hung in the air between them, the heat of it worse than the fire. Priestess looked away from him and inside herself. She remembered her youth and intemperance. She tried to imagine what she would have done, what she could have possibly said…

"I don't know," she replied, the words lodging in her throat. She winced, despising her own indecision. "I don't," she tried again, "I can't look back. You shouldn't either. Regret could destroy us both, if we let it and there is something here, something between us that should be saved, I think. Rebecca would agree. She was terribly practical. She was-"

"She would be proud of you," Priest added.

Priestess blinked. Her eyes were suddenly blurred. "Proud of us all," she corrected.

They sat in silence, let the quiet of the night soothe away what uncertainty remained within them. Priest fidgeted on the seat besides her, his knuckles cracking as he folded his hands into fists.

"Do you want to know why I broke my vow?" he asked her, the words damp with some repressed emotion.

Priestess had never seen him so undone before and she was daunted. Her heart thudded, pronouncing her fear. On her lips, she tasted the ash of the fires.

"It isn't necessary," she said at length. Her reticence frustrated her, challenged her role as Priest's confessor. It was not a duty she bore gladly and yet, she was humbled by his honesty. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to guess at his reaction, fearing that he would retreat, but praying for a reprieve. The exposed skin above her collar was flushed with the fever of the night. For the first time, Priestess noticed that she had singed her knuckles. She rubbed her fingers against her thighs and nursed the tiny hurt, which somehow gave her strength.

"I know you," she conceded.

Priest raised his head.

"I know your soul," she continued. Her breathing was hectic now. Priestess felt a vein by her temple throb. There was only one question left, one unknown that must be accounted for. Priestess reconsidered her strength, which was at once blazing and resilient, but also fragile and jaded. She hated the paradox and she hated herself for her weakness. But the crossroads loomed, the final mystery unfolding before her. Priestess steadied her soul, not with pray, but with her love from him, which remained, which would always remain…

"I know your soul," she repeated. "And I would like to know your heart. Priest, please tell me…did you love her? Was it love?"

He met her gaze. Only the blush of the fire lingered in the smoke-stained air around them, the breath of the dragon. Priest tilted his head to the side, a sign of acquiescence.

"There were a few moments…" he muttered

Instinctively, Priestess's nails dug into her thighs.

"Yes," Priest admitted. "I loved her."

Aching silence. The dying night settled around them in a great, gauzy veil of obscured moonlight and grey-tinted shadow. Priest sighed once, his hand gripping his neck.

"I do not think you understand," he said at length.

Priestess began to protest, but he stopped her, his finger touching her cheek tenderly, following the smooth curve around her lips. And her voice, quite against her will, died inside of her.

"I'm not suggesting that you are naïve, Rowan," Priest continued, "only that you knew Rebecca differently than I did. We were close in age. We were both adrift. I searched for Shannon in the dark. She searched for love in the light. We came together in a way that was not unexpected, I suppose. I admired her. She respected me. It was quick and when it was over, I was wretched enough to forget her. You must pity her, you see, for what she has become is terrible. She is a memory now. She is the whisper we all ignore. Think of what she meant to all of us once. She has nothing now…not even her child."

Priestess hesitated, surprised to see how his eyes glistened, tears lurking, but not falling. Her throat felt as though it had closed up and she breathed in through her nose, deeply. There was only one thing she could think to say in that moment, something that surpassed her shock and confusion. Touching her fingertips to Priest's brow, she traced the outline of his cross, thinking of Lent and of sacrifice.

"Remember," she whispered, her face so close to his, their fate within reach, "remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."

The tears did fall then. She saw them on his cheeks and she brushed them away with the pad of her thumb. Her fingers left a greasy smudge on his skin, made her heart smile again.

"I forgive you both," Priestess said, savoring the peace she was gifted, that fragile, blessed union.

Priest exhaled sharply, the sound almost like a laugh. He pressed his forehead to hers, their noses touching. "What else did Marcus tell you?" he asked. "I promise that it's a lie."

She reached over his shoulder and cradled his head with her palm, his hair like bristles against her skin. Ash stuck to his scalp. "No more secrets," she said.

"No more lies," Priest added.

There were very close, she felt, to salvation. She thought of the moment a few nights ago, when he had kissed her and her heart had been broken, not fulfilled. But there had completed the circle now. Come to a place of tranquility within and without and for a short time, the ruined world seemed whole and life was gentle. Priestess knew contentment. And she knew that it would last.

But it didn't. Time turned against them, closed the portal and all too soon, they were interrupted by Seth jogging up the road out of the burning town. When Priestess glanced up, she noticed that he still had his goggles perched on his brow. His skin was slick with sweat.

He did not bother with a greeting, but stopped in front of Priest, his long arms swinging slightly like the blades of a slow windmill. "The town is cleared," he said, sounding a little breathless. "I've been looking for you for the past half hour. I wondered where you'd run off to, Priest. Are you trying to avoid me again?"

Priest, for his part, seemed only vaguely perturbed. "Not intentionally," he replied, his voice stiff.

"Now," Seth said, "now, at last, will you listen to me?"

Priest raised his eyebrows. Priestess had a horrible feeling that some callous reprimand awaited her, but she was wrong to doubt jovial Seth.

"Have you come to chastise me?" Priest asked him outright.

Seth rolled his broad shoulders. "Of course not!" he said. "I hate your suspicion, Priest. It turned you against me the other night, when we sat by the fire and talked. I was only trying to help."

Priest opened his mouth to reply, but this time, Priestess cut him off.

"Insinuations," she said, "are mostly useless…and infuriating."

"Is that your way of telling me to get to the point?" Seth asked, his grin lopsided and more than a bit brazen.

Priestess nodded. "Please."

Seth straightened, his posture admirable. The last of the flames, in all their tawny brilliance, rivaled the sun that steadily rose behind them. "I know where you went yesterday," he told Priest, not a hint of accusation in his tone. "You weren't chasing after that vamp pack, were you?"

Priest scratched his nose, his embarrassment mild. "No."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Seth said. "You were looking in the wrong place, anyway. I tried to tell you that."

Priest finally lost the last of patience. He stood, his boots only a few inches away from Seth's. "Tell me what?" he asked.

Seth looked quickly at Priestess. His smile was almost apologetic. "I know," he said, "where Rebecca's son is."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks for reading! If you have a moment, please leave me a quick review. Feedback always makes my week.

I suppose I probably should tell you, there will only be four more chapters in this story, bringing the grand total to thirty. But don't worry! I have plans for a follow-up two-shot and three-shot and after that, who knows? This certainly won't be my only fic for the Priest universe, I promise you that. ^_^ I think I'm too hopelessly in love with the fandom to quit now.

The next chapter is currently in the works and should be posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well, everyone!


	27. Part 27 The Errand

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to part twenty-seven of "Cross". Seth finally reveals some of _his_ secrets in this chapter, although I am sure it's pretty obvious what he knows already. ;)

As always, I just want to take this opportunity to thank all my lovely readers and reviewers, **Lystan, FireChildSlytherin5, Genius-626, Mss Heart of Swords01, saichick, Lonely Bleeding Liar **and **Jag. **Also, I would like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts lists. Your encouragement is truly invaluable. Thank you all so much! I hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 27 The Errand**

Seth disliked the sound of his footsteps, the steely ring of his thick-soled boots as he paced the length of the hall. Cathedral City was an unfriendly wilderness to him, an irregular landscape that seemed to protest the defined flatness of the Wastelands. Although he had spent his years as a novice within the walls of the hulking metropolis, Seth's rural sensibilities could not adjust to the rigidity of the place. He was haunted by the shadows and distorted echoes. He was repulsed by the sooty air and crowded gutters and the people, who moved in mindless herds and lived like cattle packed into their tenements. Cathedral City was an aberration. It broke men and it twisted him now. Seth was no more than an animal trapped in a hutch, and he knew enough to fear the hunter.

The monastery was appropriately shadowed at night, a fitting mausoleum with iron walls and crude concrete floors. Seth continued his pacing, hoping to rid himself of the chill that climbed up his spine. The heat of his annoyance did little dispel the cold. He wasn't pleased to have been summoned by the Monsignors. He hated being pulled back from the front lines at City Seven to serve the petty needs of toothless old men. His musings of heresy were unwarranted, he knew, but deeply ingrained. Seth had little sympathy for his superiors, although he had taken strict vows of obedience. As it was, the red-haired Priestess had done her best over the years to dampen his respect for authority. Her casual cruelty had become a symbol tyranny and despite his devotion, Seth couldn't see anything benign or attractive in the Church's hierarchy.

Pausing, he ran the palm of his hand over his now healed jaw, feeling the hard ridge where the bone had been broken and then reset. Brutality went hand-in-hand with leadership. His masters were vile and so was Priestess. Perhaps, perhaps she had deserved to die…

Seth winced, disliking his indifference. He was not a hard man, but he could hold a grudge. Priestess had certainly never been a favorite of his and in his darkest moments, he could admit to himself that he was frightened of her. But the news of her death had stirred him from his apathy, and Seth was bound to a strange grief. He mourned for the loss of the familiar. He pondered the concepts of martyrdom and salvation. He thought about Priestess lying at the foot of Solar Mira, _her _jaw smashed and grotesquely distended.

That was not justice, Seth knew. The satisfaction of vengeance eluded him, especially when he realized that he pitied the woman. She had been alone, it seemed, even when she died. She had always been so alone…

Seth's fingers dug into his chin, the nails biting into his skin and he finally forced his hand away from his jaw. He wasn't feeling well. A headache gnawed at his temples and he was plagued by an unnamable worry. Cathedral City did awful things to him, reminded him of ghosts and the haunted past. In the stillness of the monastery and the solitude of his own mind, his warrior's soul began to miss the front lines. The world was understandable there, life simplified by the eternal struggle between life and death. But had death finally been awarded a just victory?

Seth closed his eyes. He wondered where they had buried Priestess. And he wondered why there had been no funeral.

It bothered him…

"Priest!"

Seth turned on his heel, drawn to the summons. A door at the end of the corridor had been propped open and he recognized the guard who had called to him. Seth raised his hand in acknowledgement, but stayed in his place.

The guard stuck his torso through the door. He slung his heavy weapon over his shoulder with a fluid twist, his bulky body armor creaking. "The Monsignors are ready for you," he said.

Seth appreciated the gruffness of his voice in this realm of smooth iron walls and unbroken, cement floors. His lips rounded in a companionable smile.

"Thanks," he said, unable to maintain the mystique and aloofness that the other Priests had deftly mastered. Plodding down the hall, he tried not to let his reluctance show. This assignment did not sit well with him and his discomfort was all too obvious. Before entering the chamber, he stood on the threshold of the door and said a prayer.

There were many things he never wanted to do and this was certainly one of them.

The Monsignors were perched on their high benches when he entered and he immediately disliked the practiced graveness of their countenances. There was a certain sense of bloated pride in each man that angered him, a desire to be God without possessing any of the natural godliness of clergymen. Seth sometimes thought that they were the most blasphemous old men he had ever met. And his father, if he remembered correctly, had been a pretty notorious scoundrel. Seth stiffened, recalling the acrid scent of whiskey combined with body odor and a mouth with few teeth that slurred every third word. At least his dear old Pa hadn't pretended to be a good man. Looking up at Orelas in particular, Seth noted his hypocrisy. It was deep, a river that ran through the soul, the course unchanged despite years and years of erosion. Where was the point, he wondered, when faith faltered? And did Orelas even realize how far he had fallen?

No. Probably not.

The Monsignor's smile was papery thin, a pantomimed expression that Seth found tedious. "Priest," he said in his resonant tenor, "thank you for coming to us. I know the journey from City Seven must have been trying."

"It was," Seth admitted. His back was still sore from sitting hunched over on his bike for two days straight, but he managed to stand tall. The smell of old incense lingered in the chamber. His nostrils burned. Smoke, he smelled smoke, but where was the fire?

Priestess had been all fire, hadn't she, with that red hair of hers. He thought of it growing wild and ratty now, twisted in a fraying braid along her decaying shoulders. How long would it be before her bones turned to dust?

He was aware of Orelas's gaze on him. Seth was tempted to offer him a taunting smile, but he resisted. Orelas looked threatened. His white eyebrows jumped together.

"Was your assignment explained to you?" he asked.

Seth raised one shoulder in a shrug. "No, Monsignor," he replied. "I only know that I was recalled to the capital." He paused, then added, "It was unexpected…in the middle of a campaign."

Orelas tucked his hands inside his robe, modeling a modest monk in prayer. "That is good," he said vaguely. "That is very good." He glanced at Chamberlain next to him. The other Monsignors sat wordless.

For the first time, Seth was confused. He stood still and tried to count the beats of his heart as his mind raced ahead. Priest had told him very little of his assignment, that was true, but why such secrecy? Suspicion was an inelegant thief. It stole his peace of mind yet left its prints everywhere. Priest was one of the few people that Seth had never second-guessed, admiring both his stoicism and restraint which were somehow never overbearing. And yet, paranoia made him consider the man in a new light. It seemed unusual that Priest should dispatch him to the capital in the middle of a hard-fought campaign. It seemed unnatural that orders should be deferred or concealed. It seemed odd that Seth should not know why he had been summoned.

And it seemed strange that Priestess hadn't been granted a funeral Mass.

Seth shifted his weight, his impatience evident. Orelas was meditating, his old eyes deep in his head. Chamberlain leaned forward over the high counter. He looked like a preening vulture, all neck and no head.

"You are discreet, Priest," he said and that was all.

"Not a word," Orelas murmured, his whispered tone still carrying with it a dangerous reverberation. "Not a word must be spoken.

Seth's tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He did not want to be troubled, but he was. The lights in the ceiling were hot on his head and he was reminded of the training grounds, where Priestess had stood over him all those years ago, taunting him viciously. She had kicked dirt in his face. _Get up. Get up, boy_. He remembered her eyes, Priestess's eyes. Has she seemed sad then? Had she not wanted to hurt him?

Seth exhaled once through his nose.

Priestess had deserved death, maybe, but she also deserved a funeral.

Seth closed his eyes. He knew that he didn't understand martyrdom. It wasn't a sacrifice, but a denial. In the back of his mind, he thought he heard a voiceless scream, someone crying out to him, reaching, crawling, digging her way out of a coffin buried at the crossroads. Begging, begging _him_.

Oh how he hated Cathedral City. Oh how he despised this fetid chamber with its burnt incense and ghosts that lingered and grew on the guilt of those around them.

Or was it all a misplaced fantasy? Something his grief and confusion had construed. Something his tired mind had invented to conceal the fact that he did feel sorry for Priestess, even though she had been a fiend.

The door behind him opened and Seth jerked, his eyes catching sight of Orelas's face, the mask of death carved into living flesh. _What are you hiding, old man?_

"A job for you," the Monsignor said, lifting his hands and beckoning Seth forward. "A very simple job."

Seth stayed where he was, but glanced over his shoulder. The same guard had reentered the chamber. He had a strange bundle with him now, a mass of dark blue linen.

"This package," Orelas explained, "must be delivered to the Sisters of Charity by tomorrow morning. You are to surrender the object to the Mother Superior and then return to your post in City Seven. You will say nothing of this to the others. You will never speak of this again. Priest, is that understood?"

Seth was afraid to answer. He knew, in some strange way, that he would be signing his life away, that in speaking he would transform himself into one of those hated hypocrites. His faith faltered. Without thinking, he touched his jaw. The bone was solid, back in place, but the scars remained.

"Yes," he said.

The guard handed him that bundle and Seth was surprised when he felt how yielding the mass of linen was, how soft and warm. The bundle squirmed against his chest. A small face showed. Two blue eyes. A tuft of reddish hair. The baby looked so much like his mother.

"Yes," Seth repeated, his back to the Monsignors. He understood then why there had been no funeral.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>A shorter chapter, but the next one will be longer, I promise. Thanks for reading! I'm hard at work on part twenty-eight and should have it posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well, everyone!


	28. Part XXVIII Penance

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delayed update, but I have a nice, long chapter to make up for my tardiness. And, of course, we finally get to meet Priest's son. But the real question is, will Priest get to meet him? Hmm, I won't give any secrets away just yet! ^_^

Before we begin, I would like to thank all my awesome readers and reviewers, **saichick, Aureleis, FireChildSlytherin5, MssHeart of Swords01, Lystan, ShipsThatFly, Faith-Catherine **and **Mygara-chan**. Also, I'd like to thank all the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. I do hope you enjoy this installment!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XXVIII Penance**

"This is the place," Seth said. "This is the place as I remember it." He was straddling the seat of his motorcycle, one hand pointing to the rectangular cement buildings that stood open to the desert wind, shielded only by a low tin wall that encircled the compound like a cow pasture. "It looks the same," he concluded, "although they might've added another dormitory."

Priestess squinted in the sharp morning light and counted five buildings. Only one, a round structure no bigger than a hovel, had a cross above its door. "Your memory is admirable," she told Seth.

Priest said nothing.

They had parked their bikes by an iron gate outside the compound, somewhere near the swinging tin sign that read _The Sisters of Charity—Orphanage_. Priestess was amused by the bluntness of the sign. It left very little to the imagination. With a curious frown, she settled herself back onto her motorcycle, soreness radiating from her tired thigh muscles.

"It looks like a farm," she said doubtfully. Sand blew across the yard of the orphanage, insinuating itself into the crevices of the rustic buildings. The place had a plain functionality to it. It served a purpose and nothing more. There was no art to its construction, no pleasing facades or ornamentations. It had sharp corners and flat roofs and unfinished, wooden doors that probably creaked on their un-oiled hinges. Priestess glanced at Priest and wondered what he was thinking. Did it bother him to know that his son was being raised here?

Her companion's expression was passive, his skin flushed from the early heat, which even in the morning hours was suffocating. Priest raised his hand and wiped the dust from his nose. And then he coughed. Once.

"Well," Seth grumbled, dropping back onto his bike, his gloved hands slapping over his knees.

Priestess smiled grimly. She sympathized with his frustration. This journey, which had taken them a day and a night, was a favor to Priest. Neither she nor Seth had any business with the child. And if she was being honest with herself, Priestess knew that she wasn't pleased at the prospect of seeing the boy. It had been easier to face Lucy, Shannon's daughter. The girl was a part of Priest's life that she had already acknowledged and settled in her heart. She wasn't a child born from sin, like this boy, a living reminder of his mother's memory, the woman he had doomed for the moment of his conception.

_Poor boy._

Priestess chewed on her lower lip, tasting a few grains of gritty sand. It wasn't fair, she decided, that the Church had corrupted that ancient love, had violated the bond between mother and child. Had Rebecca known, the moment she felt those first searing labor pains, that her life was over? Had she realized that in giving life to the world she would also herald her own death? The paradox was ugly. It upset Priestess in a strange way, made her feel uncomfortable in her skin, the very body that the Church had used as a weapon. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly blasphemous, she doubted the existence of her soul, which had long ago been sacrificed to serve the needs of others. It was not what God would have wanted, Priestess was convinced, He who had given her both her body and soul. He who had given Rebecca and Priest their son, only to have the child stolen away.

She looked at the low buildings, the cramped dormitories and round chapel and the one-room schoolhouse. This boy could have had a mother.

Priestess blinked and remembered her own lost home out on the Wastelands, the hovel with the wooden porch and her rag doll and Sage.

"Me too," she whispered, thinking of her own mother, the woman who still dreamed of rain in the desert and named her children for things that were lost.

Priestess glanced at Priest. She saw his hesitance for what it was, a final deferral, a cowardice born from his unrelenting shame. She reached across and touched her fingers to his sleeve. "Are you going?" she asked.

Priest dropped his head. He was staring at the dusty tracks his motorcycle's front tire had made in the dirt road. The tin sign slapped against its pole in a poor imitation of a bell. In the distance, Priestess thought she could hear children shouting.

"I don't think the sisters would refuse to admit you," Seth said. He had pulled his hood up over his head to avoid the spray of dust stirred by the wind. The sand hissed, stinging Priestess's cheeks. She wondered, vaguely, what hail felt like.

"You _are _a member of the clergy," Seth added.

"Gone rogue, you mean," Priest muttered without a hint of amusement. He was shifting the weight of his bike, moving the machine back and forth as though it were an impatient horse. "Do you think the boy is safe?" he grated.

"It's been ten years since I handed him over," Seth replied.

"A long time," Priestess said.

"You've never seen him." Seth rubbed his fingers over his bike's handlebars.

Priest cleared his throat. "It isn't my place to interfere," he said gruffly. "I only wanted to make sure he was protected after Marcus took Lucy. The boy doesn't need to see me. It would be better…it would be unfair to him if I…"

Priestess was troubled by his half-hearted excuses, which seemed to come from a deeper place of darkness within him. "You cannot forgive yourself," she noted.

The clouds of dust and sand settled around them. Priest's head snapped up. He looked betrayed, the quiet ache in his eyes overwhelmed by fire.

Priestess, however, was not daunted. "How horrible," she said, "to carry your guilt within you for so long."

His jaw tightened. He shook his head once in denial, the light from the rising sun glancing off his face. "You don't have any right," he warned.

Priestess didn't listen. "I'm going to check on the boy," she insisted, swinging her leg off her bike and pushing out the kickstand with the scuffed heel of her boot. "Someone has to."

Seth let out a low whistle.

Priest shifted on his motorcycle, his discomfort evident.

_Good_, Priestess thought, _let him squirm a little._

"What are you going to tell him?" he asked, rising panic constricting his voice.

Priestess thought about it for a minute. She plucked the gloves off of her hands and flexed her aching fingers. A blister on her thumb had begun to bleed. The finger missing a nail throbbed with a vengeance, like a viper bite.

"I might not tell him anything," she said, conceding her own lack of bravery, "but I think I owe it-"

"I never said you owed me anything," Priest interrupted.

"To Rebecca," Priestess finished. She unfastened the gate that led into the compound and slipped inside. It closed behind her with a definitive rattle and for an instant, she was frozen.

Why was she doing this?

_Because you love him_, reason told her. _And you want _her_ to forgive you for it._

Priestess tried to shrug off her jealousy. This was an act of unconditional love. This was her gift to Priest. She didn't look over her shoulder as she moved down the wide path to the main building. The road was rutted with tire marks, the terrain rough. An uneasy wind whipped over the plains and she was forced to pull up her hood. The sand could be blinding out here, if one wasn't careful. But in truth, Priestess wasn't sure how much she wanted to see.

A boy. A child. The evidence of a guilty sin. The despised truth.

But she couldn't hate the child for it, could she?

Priestess wasn't sure.

A set of double doors guarded the entrance to the main building. Priestess found a chord hanging nearby and pulled on it once, a bell pealing from somewhere inside the orphanage. She had to wait too long on the patio for an answer, fighting the urge to return back to the gate in an admission of her own cowardice. The minutes dragged by and she pulled the chord once more, the rough rope twisting against her palm. It was another moment before someone came to the door.

"Hello?" A tentative crack appeared in the seam of the doors. Priestess thought she saw a tuft of mousey brown hair, followed by the grey veil of a habit.

She stayed where she was on the patio and tried to put a smile on her face. "Is this the Orphanage of the Sisters of Charity?"

It seemed like a foolish question, given the clearly marked sign on the gate out front.

A head appeared from behind the door, a young sister who had dove-grey eyes and a thin nose. She wore her habit with a high collar buttoned up to her chin. "Yes," she said in a breathy voice. A pause, then, "Can I help you?"

Priestess stepped out of the sunlight and into the shadow.

The sister's eyes widened when she saw the cross on her forehead. The door was nearly jerked closed. "What are you-?"

"Your Mother Superior," Priestess said patiently, "may I see her?"

The sister hesitated for what seemed to be a painfully long period of time. Priestess was irked by her indecision, but she tried to remain passive. She knew that the Church had most likely put out several bulletins warning of rogue Priests. Stiff penalties, including excommunication, were visited upon anyone who harbored God's so-called enemies.

As the minutes passed, Priestess felt her hope begin to drip away. She was disappointed in herself and in Priest, who should be standing there beside her. Lingering on the threshold, she was ready to admit defeat when the sister finally opened the door.

"Please," she said, fingering the cross by her throat. "Come in and wait in the vestibule."

Priestess raised a brow in surprise, but she complied at once, exchanging the dry air of the desert for the relative coolness of a long, wide hall. The vestibule was little more than a square box of space by the door, flanked by two niches where statues of patron saints had been placed. Priestess was pleased to see that these statues were still painted and made of plaster, unlike the iron sculptures that haunted the churches in the cities. Bowls of fake flowers had even been set at the base of each wooden pedestal and she enjoyed the unlikely splash of color amidst the drab grey and tan.

The sister nodded obligingly, her smile nervous as she moved down the hall. "Just one minute," she promised and then was gone through a door on the left-hand side of the corridor.

Priestess sighed and prepared herself for more waiting. She took a little time to say a prayer in front of both the statues, her meditation only disturbed when a door opened down the corridor.

The woman who came into the hall was short, a diminutive figure who had long, ropey limbs and wore a plain grey habit that was neat as a pin despite a copious amount of darning around the cuffs and the hem. She had a wide mouth and pretty blue eyes and her skin was burnt red from the sun. She smiled when she saw Priestess and nodded as though she had just run into an old friend.

"I'd be lying if I said I never expected one of your Order to show up here someday," she said, her clipped voice betraying a repressed Wasteland's accent.

Priestess's head snapped back. She couldn't hide her surprise. "I'm sorry,' she muttered, feeling thoroughly out of her element amongst the sand-strewn corridors and sunlit rooms that smelled of soap and children.

The woman held her hand out to Priestess and gave her fingers a firm shake, her palms lined with calluses. "I'm Sister Elizabeth. It's a pleasure to have you join us, Priestess."

Priestess blinked at her hostess. "Thank you," she said, remembering her manners, the only lesson of her mother's she still retained. "I was looking for your Mother Superior. Is she-?"

"Passed on last March," Sister Elizabeth said. "The clergy hasn't had much to do with our order since they cut-off the Wasteland parishes a few years ago. They never bothered to appoint a replacement. That still doesn't stop them from shipping train cars full of needy children out here every other month, though. I suppose they remember us enough unload their troubles on our doorstep."

"That sounds about right," Priestess replied. She felt like an unwelcome figure of authority, a reminder of the polluted cities that seemed like a bad dream out on the desolate stretches of the Wastelands. The Church's disdain for the outposts was no secret and she sympathized with Sister Elizabeth's predicament. The clergy never solved problems when they could help it, just shifted the blame to someone else.

Sister Elizabeth took one step forward, her heavy boots scraping against the sandy floor. She clapped her hand lightly on Priestess's shoulder. "I hope you don't think I'm too forward," she said, "but I know why you're here."

Priestess couldn't bite back her grimace in time. She pretended to look into one of the rooms off to her right. It was a washroom, complete with shallow basins and little squares of cloth hanging near the sinks. She counted twenty washstands in all, although taking in the number of towels, she realized that the children probably stood two to a sink.

Memories of dormitories and long corridors and narrow beds lined up against windowless walls came back to her as she studied the washroom. Priestess was no stranger to institutional life, where regularity and routine were the order of the day and the monotony could be maddening. The resourceful adapted, although Priestess never felt she had. She still missed her home on the Wastelands, that little hovel that was no more than a dream now, a childhood comfort softened and distorted by nostalgia. She stood very still for a moment and considered running for the door.

But Sister Elizabeth was already escorting her down the hall, her hand a definite pressure on her back.

"You're here about the boy, aren't you?" she asked.

To her relief, Priestess was ripped from her reverie. She gladly focused her attention on Sister Elizabeth, who had not dropped her smile once since the start of their conversation.

"Yes," she said, somewhat reluctant to admit the truth so easily. There was something about Sister Elizabeth's keen gaze that could either be heartening…or threatening. Priestess hadn't decided how she felt about the woman yet. For now, her opinion would have to be reserved.

There seemed little sense in skirting her true purpose, though, and Priestess set her jaw, ready to plunge into battle. "You seem to have some knowledge of the child's background," she said, throwing some weight behind her words.

Sister Elizabeth did not seem daunted, but she did lower her voice. "We know about his mother, you mean," she said. They were at the end of the corridor now and she took a sharp left, bringing Priestess through a dining hall that boasted no less than five long tables surrounded by rough-hewn benches. A door was propped open at the end of the room and dusty light fell into the darkened interior. In the yard beyond, Priestess thought she could see two girls jumping rope.

"I had been given to believe that his parentage was a secret," she muttered.

Sister Elizabeth stopped halfway down the aisle in the middle of the dining room and leaned against one of the tables. "Apparently not," she said, "for here you are."

There was no malice in her tone, no goading challenge or rebuke. Sister Elizabeth folded her hands across her middle, the hem of her skirt swaying slightly in the breeze that came in through the back door. "He was brought to us by a Priest," she said. "Most of the children we get here are sent from the refugee centers in the cities. Our Mother Superior, God rest her soul, was a shrewd woman. But you don't have to be particularly shrewd to put two and two together. She made inquiries about the baby. The Monsignors were reticent, but some members of the lower clergy knew enough of the gossip. It's a shame what they did to Peter's mother. We never told him that, of course. Only that she was brave. And that she loved him."

Sister Elizabeth's voice echoed in the cavernous dining hall, up to the rafters. Listening to her, Priestess tightened her hands into fists, reminded of all those terrible things she had hoped would soon be forgotten.

_Who am I doing this for?_ she asked herself. _Is this for Priest? Or is it for her?_

"Peter," she replied, testing the name on her uncertain tongue.

"That's what we named him," Sister Elizabeth said.

Priestess stared at the floorboards, the wide wooden planks etched with sand. "His mother was Rebecca," she said.

Sister Elizabeth took a step forward, her expression sympathetic, the softness in her face heightened by the muted light and the motes of dust that obscured the air between them. "You knew her?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And did she love him?"

"I don't know," Priestess replied. She paused, remembering not what she knew of Rebecca, but what she hoped was true. "Yes," she amended. "She had to have loved him."

Sister Elizabeth seemed satisfied. "Did you come here because of her?"

"No." Priestess looked over her shoulder back out into the corridor. She felt awfully lonely then, facing a challenge that wasn't really hers. "I came for his father."

"Oh." For the first time, Sister Elizabeth seemed caught off guard. "And the father," she questioned, "he is-"

"He wants to make sure that his son is safe," Priestess said. She was anxious and she leaned forward on the balls of her feet.

Sister Elizabeth picked up on the subtle signal. "Of course," she said. "Why don't you see for yourself?"

Priestess was about to protest, but she stopped herself. There had been a hint of the surreal about this interview, as if she were observing her conversation with Sister Elizabeth from afar, detached from the blunt edges of reality. Seeing the boy, she knew, would give life to Priest's sin. She might not be able to forgive him if she looked at Peter and saw an echo of Priest within him. Priestess was not so deluded as to believe that her old jealousies had been conquered at last. And she was envious of Rebecca in a strange way, envious of the woman who had claimed a part of Priest's past as her own, who had loved him…and been loved in return.

The boy was evidence of that.

Sister Elizabeth turned and moved towards the open door in the rear of the dining room. Priestess shuffled her feet, her boots impossibly heavy. She wanted to delay this moment. She wanted to give in to her own peculiar cowardice, which had frozen her in her tracks.

"How is he?" she asked lamely, recalling Sister Elizabeth back into the dining room.

The nun raised a brow, the skin on her forehead creasing with slight skepticism. "Pardon?"

"The boy," Priestess muttered in a coarse undertone. "I only need to know if he is well."

"Oh, he is." Sister Elizabeth nodded readily. "We think he may have been a few weeks premature when he was born…he was so tiny when they brought him to us! A very fussy baby. Kept me up many a night with colic, crying, Lord he would cry. I used to walk with him up and down the halls, trying not to disturb the other children. He'd settle, eventually. I couldn't help but feel that he was missing his mother."

Priestess thought of Rebecca lying cold and unlamented in her grave, her arms outstretched, begging for her child. _Oh God._

"He's grown up nice and strong, though," Sister Elizabeth continued. "Very affable and obedient, although I suppose that's not a surprise, considering who his parents were."

"No," Priestess said vaguely. She realized then that there were very few pleasant things she could remember about Rebecca. She remembered her breaking Seth's jaw. She remembered her howling at the novices when they fell asleep during chapel. She remembered her dragging a few familiars out into the sunlight, mere children, and killing them all…

What if Peter wanted to know about his mother?

_I'll lie_, she thought.

"They're having their recess in the yard now," Sister Elizabeth said. She had half-turned and was heading towards the door. "Lessons start again in half an hour, so you'll have a little time to talk to Peter if you want."

"I…" Priestess started to refuse, but the woman was already out the door. Numbly, she followed her into the unforgiving sunlight.

The yard wasn't particularly large, shielded from the light by an overhanging tin roof. The children had broken off into small groups to play. Jump rope was popular amongst the girls. Priestess watched their long braids swinging as they hopped over loops of coiled twine. Their clothes were clean, she noted and none of them looked overly thin.

The boys, who were fewer in number than the girls, were playing tag, even though the yard was almost too small to accommodate the game. They kicked up clouds of dust as they ran, their skinny legs pounding against the cracked soil as they tried dodging the unfortunate child who had been dubbed "it". Priestess observed the boys, saw them wheel and duck, heard them quarrel over what constituted as home base and what didn't. They frightened her, these wild, gangly children. She saw in them the ashes of a ruined civilization, a world that had already been led to its deathbed and was succumbing to its own disease. Childhood was painful for its innocence. It highlighted the miseries of the human race, the last, hollow gasps of decaying life that could only herald the end. For the first time, Priestess considered the concept of extinction. They were not very different from vampires, after all, packed away on their own rotting reservations, hungry for survival and the right to exist. Priestess was heartbroken when she looked at the children. She had such doubts.

Sister Elizabeth put a gentle hand on her wrist, tugging her hand until Priestess was stirred from her apathy. "He's over there," she said, pointing to a tall boy who had broken off from the group and was playing catch with a younger child. "Peter never wants anyone to feel left out," she explained. "He makes sure everyone is included."

"Oh," Priestess said. She forced herself to look at the boy. He was unremarkable in most ways. He was a little bit leaner than the others, although both his mother and father had been tall and trim. And the hair. He would have been immediately recognizable if she had seen his hair first. The sisters kept it short in a sensible crew-cut, but even at a distance she could spot the mop of red. Peter looked like his mother, she realized. Priestess's stomach soured. She did not want to come face to face with Rebecca again. She didn't want to…

"Peter!" Sister Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth and called out, her voice ringing with practiced authority over the yard. "Peter!"

The boy quickly handed the ball back to his playmate and turned, jogging over to the women. "Sorry, Sister," he panted.

Priestess had no idea what he was apologizing for.

Sister Elizabeth brushed a little dust off Peter's sleeve. Automatically, the boy tucked his shirttail into his pants. "You have a visitor, Peter," she said.

Both of the boy's tawny eyebrows shot up. He had freckles on his forehead, Priestess noticed. Just like his father. "Yes, Sister," he said, although the concept of a visitor was clearly foreign to him.

"This woman has come to speak with you for a little while. I don't have to remind you be polite," Sister Elizabeth said. She nodded once at Priestess. "Good luck."

Priestess was more than annoyed when the Sister left them and went back in through the dining room door. The boy was looking up at her, his curiosity tainted with well-placed fear. Priestess was at a complete loss. She stood a few paces apart from Peter and stared at him, saw too much of Priest in his face, in his eyes especially…

"I…" she stammered, looking about wildly. There were a couple of wooden benches pushed underneath the roof. The shade looked inviting, a reprieve from the constant heat of the morning sun. She ran her hand over her neck and felt the sweat on her skin. "Why don't we sit down for a couple of minutes?" she offered.

The boy _was_ obedient, as Sister Elizabeth had said. He followed Priestess over to a bench wordlessly and sat on the farthest edge away from her, picking at the loose splinters with his dirty fingers. After a while, he noticed Priestess's eyes on him and quickly wiped his hands on his pants.

"Sorry," he muttered again.

Priestess looked away from the boy. In the back of her mind, she wondered what Rebecca would have done with him. Could she have possibly been a good mother?

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, realizing she had no idea just what her conversation with the child should entail. He looked healthy enough, seemed like a good boy, wasn't that enough to tell Priest? Or would he want to know more?

Her heart had begun to thunder in her ears. She hoped that Peter wouldn't pick up on her own sinister fear, which infected her senses and made feel more than a little off-balance. There was no heady rush of adrenalin to accompany this terror, no drive of battle. She was sitting alone in a dusty yard with an orphaned boy, uncertain as to her purpose and lost to that same strange jealousy that had tainted her ever since she had learned that Rebecca had loved Priest. It all seemed so dreadfully unfair in a way, a mother taken from her child, a child deprived of his family. Priestess remembered her own departure from home at the tender age of ten and could not help but feel sympathetic towards Peter. And that sympathy, she knew, would be her salvation.

_We have that in common_, she thought. _We share the same tragedy._

Peter stirred, the bench shifting beneath him. "You're a Priestess," he said, unconsciously touching his face, outlining the shape of her cross on his own forehead.

Priestess nodded. "That's right. I am."

"My mama was a Priestess."

Priestess swallowed. She was suddenly nauseous, sickened by a child's knowledge, which somehow superseded her own adult reasoning. Peter was frank and he obviously clung to what he knew of his mother, the one thing he had not been denied, a made-up memory of the woman who had paid for his life with her own.

And Rebecca deserved some justice, Priestess knew. She deserved her own reckoning, some revenge for the violation that the clergy had visited upon her. Priestess felt some of her anger and she quivered. Was there a chance, she considered, to partially right this wrong? No. No, there wasn't. She was powerless to heal a wound she had not inflicted, to make amends for a tragedy that was not her own. She was a bystander. She was an outsider who wanted to be a part of something that could never include her. This was Priest's task, his wound to heal, his tragedy to mend. And she was only the hapless messenger, the insignificant other who could not understand the full weight of this grief, even though she was sitting next to a boy who needed his mother.

Priestess sighed. She regretted her weakness, but didn't deny it. There was only so much she could do here. And for Priest and his sorrow, she could do nothing at all.

"Yes," she said, admitting the little she knew. "Your mother was a Priestess and your father is a Priest. I know them both. They are my…friends."

Peter scratched his nose, his movements vaguely reminiscent of Priest's own particular quirks. "But my mama is dead," he said, his voice dropping as he pronounced the last word.

Priestess almost wanted to embrace the child, to hold him against her breast because Rebecca couldn't. She satisfied herself with giving him a sad smile. "That was a long time ago," she said.

"Before I even came here," Peter said. He stopped picking at the splinters and let his hands hang between his knees. "Sister Elizabeth says that vamps probably got her, that's the way it usually happens. Most of the kids here don't have parents because of vamps."

Priestess said nothing. She couldn't bring herself to lie to him. Turning her guilty gaze away, she studied one of the posts supporting the roof, followed the uneven grain of the wood, the cracks and knots. The air was dry. Priestess saw a few of the children gathered around a pump off to the side of the yard, filling a metal cup with water. She touched her dry lips and tried to overlook her thirst. Peter started swinging his leg, scraping his heel against the dust. His foot made a narrow imprint in the dirt.

"I only know a little about my mama," he said, "but Sister Elizabeth never said anything about my dad. I reckon she doesn't know much, otherwise she would have told me. She said she'd never keep secrets from me if I wanted to hear them. Like…like I know my mama wasn't supposed to have me, but she did anyway. That means she loved me...but my dad, I guess the vamps got him too."

"No," Priestess said before she could stop herself.

Peter's head shot up. "How'd he die then?" he asked.

Priestess hesitated. She tugged at the sleeves of her coat, the cloth sticking to her sweaty skin. There was a definite danger here, she knew, a line that she was probably not meant to cross. But Rebecca's ghost had taken form in her mind, insisting, pleading for a final act of mercy, the mercy she had been denied when she stood before the Monsignors with blood still running down her legs and asked whether she had had a son or a daughter.

Unwilling tears stung Priestess's eyes. She looked at Peter, who had his father's eyes and his mother's hair. What did he deserve, this lost, lonely child? What did he need to hear from her?

_Tell him. Please, please tell him._

There was no penance for this sin, Priestess knew, only absolution.

"Your father is still alive," she told Peter. "He sent me to see you because he wanted to make sure that you were safe and happy here. And he wants you to know that he loves you very much…even though he hasn't been with you. Do you understand that, Peter?"

The boy nodded numbly, his mouth falling open. "My dad…"

"It's all right," Priestess muttered, sensing his emotion.

Peter suddenly seemed embarrassed. His shoulders stiffened. He rubbed his nose repeatedly with his hands and tugged on the frayed cuffs of his pants. After a while, he looked up at Priestess, his eyes watery with unshed tears, bearing all the stoicism of a soldier, the child of warriors who was obedient by nature, but still a little boy nonetheless.

"Sister Elizabeth never told me that," Peter said. His voice had lost its lazy, Wasteland drawl, his vowels and consonants hardened with what might have been misplaced fear…and pain.

Priestess's hand itched. She wanted desperately to embrace him. Despite her doctrine of detachment, she began to wonder what life had been like for Peter, one unfortunate child of many, constantly overlooked, his existence ordered by routine and necessity, not love. It damaged the soul, to be unwanted at such a young age. It corrupted youth and left lingering memories, invisible scars. Peter was already a veteran of many battles. Priestess knew that he must lay awake at night, trying to imagine his mother although he had never even seen her.

"I'm sorry," Priestess said. She suddenly felt guilty for hating Rebecca, for envying what was not the least bit enviable. Reaching over, she touched Peter's shoulder.

The boy coughed, but did not recoil under the weight of her hand. "My dad knows I'm here?" he asked thickly.

Priestess heard the insinuation in the question. It stung of abandonment, of a resentment that was already brewing.

"He didn't," she said, trying to undo the hurt before it dug underneath Peter's skin. "He wasn't sure where you were, but he wanted to find you."

"Oh." Peter did not seem appeased. "Well, why now?"

"It's very complicated."

"That means you don't want to tell me the truth."

Priestess sighed. She had no skill for this conversation. Peter was almost beyond her reach, but she wanted to soothe him as best she could. This journey, she realized, had not been for Priest's benefit. It hadn't even been for Rebecca.

Peter deserved better. He deserved a father who was not kept away by his guilt. He deserved a mother who was not buried at some unhallowed crossroads. And Priestess could sense his desperation, that clawing, groping determination to reclaim what had always been missing.

His father was near, that he must know, but the separation between them was never more defined. Priestess dropped her hand from the boy's wrist. She was wronging him, even now. This was a not a victory. This wasn't an end. Only a defeat.

"This seems like a nice place," she said to assuage her own conscience. "Do you like it here, Peter?"

The boy shrugged. "I like Sister Elizabeth. She's always been real good to me…not like a mama, but nice. And the other kids, we get along. I always have enough to eat and I get my own bed."

"You are fortunate," Priestess said, although she was doubtful.

Peter said nothing.

They sat in silence for a few wasted minutes. Peter continued to dig his foot into the dirt. He had made a little tunnel, burrowing down to the dark, deep earth that was still cool. The toe of his shoe was tan with dust. Like any boy, he had bruises on his knees and a small scrape by his left elbow. Priestess tried to think of something to say, but her purpose had been exhausted. Together, they watched the other children play until one of the sisters rang the school bell. The jump ropes stopped swinging and fell limp on the ground. The game of tag was finished, unresolved. The ball Peter had been playing with rolled against the yard and hit the fence with a quiet thud.

"Afternoon lessons," the boy muttered without much enthusiasm. He stood and brushed the splinters off the seat of his pants.

Priestess rose as well and stood before him. "It was very nice to meet you, Peter," she said and held out her hand.

The boy took it gingerly and shook it without much force. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, clearly remembering what Sister Elizabeth had told him about politeness. "I 'preciate your visit and all."

Priestess smiled and touched his hair, a final remembrance of his mother, the only memorial Rebecca would ever have. She turned to go.

A shadow was blocking the doorway to the dining room. Most of the children had already filed inside, but someone lingered on the threshold. Priestess took a step closer, expecting to see Sister Elizabeth or one of the other nuns. Instead, she saw Priest.

He was leaning against the doorjamb, waiting, picking at the dirt underneath his nails.

Priestess went weak in the knees. She realized, with a sudden jolt, that Peter was right behind her.

Priest glanced up at her, that quiet ache in his eyes never more evident. Over the years, Priestess had been naïve enough to think he was yearning for Shannon and Lucy alone. Now she knew better.

And inexplicably, she felt the most jubilant elation, a joy that was not hers, but came from the world. This was the amendment. This was the victory. This was setting right what she always knew was wrong.

Priestess stood still and listened to the ecstatic throb of her pounding heart. She could only think of one thing to say in that moment, only one thing.

"Thank God," she muttered.

Priest nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes, Peter's eyes, squinting in the sunlight. A silent exchange passed between them. Priestess knew what was needed of her. She moved through the doorway when Priest stepped aside, lingering just long enough to whisper, "His name is Peter."

Priest nodded again.

Peter was coming in from the yard, his long arms swinging by his sides and he almost ran into his father. The boy stopped short and looked up. Priest looked down at him.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked the child.

Peter didn't hesitate. He found his father's face and held it in his gaze, the wish of a lifetime repaid in an instant. "I sure hope so," he said.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks for reading! I'm hard at work on part twenty-nine and should have it posted as soon as possible. Until then, take care and be well!


	29. Part 29 Death Knell

**Author's Note: **Another sad chapter, but I promise to make the last one happy. Priestess and Priest deserve it, I think. I've certainly put them both through enough angst and heartbreak in this story. I'm determined to make it up to them. ;)

As always, I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to all my readers and reviewers, **Lystan, saichick, Faith-Catherine, Aureleis, MssHeart of Swords01, FireChildSlytherin5, ShipsThatFly, Lune du Minuit, Jag, Mygara-chan, Lonely Bleeding Liar **and **Yijeni. **In addition, if you've added this story to your favorites/author alerts lists, thank you as well! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part 29 Death Knell**

Rowan ran her palm across the shelf over her bed. It came away dusty. She frowned, remembering some old proverb her mother had been fond of, cleanliness is next to Godliness. Huh, that was funny, considering her mother had never kept a clean house. The dust from the frequent desert sandstorms always had a way of getting inside their hovel. Rowan recalled the feel of it under her bare feet, that grainy, gritty sensation that rubbed her flesh raw until her soles had developed calluses. There was no sand in Cathedral City though, just those noxious ashes, that silken soot that coated the skin with all the beguiling tenderness of a lover's kiss. Rowan frowned and rubbed her hand vigorously against her pants leg. She had to clean.

It had been a long time since she was last in her cell at the Order's monastery in the capital. Like most Priests, she was often stationed in the Wastelands during campaigns, assigned to those tough little outposts where the sun was strong enough to turn the skin to leather and people survived on tiny potatoes and root vegetables painstakingly grown in plots of soil they kept in their cellars. It was a hard life, but one she didn't object to. Being quartered in the claustrophobic confines of the monastery was worse in a way, the halls echoing with unpleasant memories and the whispers of the dead who would not be forgotten. Ah, if only _she_ could forget…

"You're weak," Rowan told herself. Now that Priestess was gone, she was her greatest critic. Agitated, she knelt on her bed, the thin mattress giving under her weight as she plucked the few items off her shelf and piled them onto the small table nearby. Priests weren't allowed many personal effects and Rowan could count her possessions on one hand. She had a rag doll she had brought from home, the steel rosary the Monsignors had given her upon her ordination and a book of novenas that had belonged to Priest. He had noticed her eyeing it a couple of years back and discreetly slipped it to her as Christmas present. It was on that day that Rowan realized she loved him…and when she began to hope that he might love her back.

"Fool," she muttered. "Stupid, stupid girl."

Her shoulder ached as she reached for the book of novenas. Rowan paused and dug her knuckles into the muscle. She had dislocated her shoulder during the recent attack on Sola Mira, a planned assault that had gone disastrously awry.

The pain from her arm moved down into her chest, squeezing her lungs until she couldn't breathe, until she felt as though she had been buried alive, the tremendous weight of the soil crushing the last of her life out of her. She sank onto her bed, the book held limply between her fingers. It was dark in her cell, like a catacomb, and the air was rank.

_Marcus…_

There were indeed such things as mixed blessings, although Rowan was feeling too depressed to admit that she had been blessed at all. Her life had taken a sudden, strange turn and as usual, she had been powerless to direct its course…and just as powerless to help Marcus, who had been pulled back into the depths of Sola Mira. They hadn't been able to find his body, either, even after the liquidation. Not a single bone.

Rowan gagged, sick to her stomach. The evidence was too obvious to be ignored. The boy with the green-eyes had certainly suffered a horrible death, a wretched, tortured end.

_Eaten alive_, she thought and for all her strength, she was not immune to that particular horror. Rowan shivered, drawing her legs up onto the bed and hugging her knees close to her chest. And there she sat, like a child, stripped of all her carefully crafted stoicism. She pressed her forehead against legs and shut her eyes. The dark was frightening, even in the relative safety of her tiny cell. The dark was conquering and all-consuming. The dark had come to claim her…

The book of novenas slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. She jumped when she heard it hit the ground, reality spilling back into the cell like a welcome burst of warmth, like the sun rising in all its glory over a distant horizon. Rowan leaned forward and picked up the treasured item. She flipped through the pages. Her heart was lifted by the familiarity of the prayers and she tried to feel thankful for what she had been given, the miracle that was always looked for, but unexpected nonetheless.

The war was ending.

Rowan closed the book and pressed her palms to the stiff leather cover. An unsettled fear had taken hold of her, the worry irrational, but potent nonetheless. And for some reason, for some strange reason, she felt as though she might cry…

A door opened down the dormitory hallway and closed. Shuffling footsteps followed. Rowan was immediately irked by the intrusion and she considered slamming the door of her cell shut in an act of supreme rudeness. Instead, she hopped off her bed, pretending to busy herself amongst her effects, pushing the small table against the wall with her hip, straightening her blanket. Her hands were numb, though, and they fumbled over her pillow. She dropped the book back onto the shelf and stared at the imprint it made in the dust. Dust, dust_…remember, you are dust and to dust you shall return…_

"I've been looking for you." The voice was close at hand, rough and low and searching.

_He's lonely_, she thought and turned around to find Priest leaning against the open door. "You aren't supposed to be here," she said automatically.

Priest lowered his chin in a half-nod. "I know," he muttered, jerking his head in the direction of the hall. "Women's dormitories."

Rowan did not respond, letting the perilous silence stretch between them. She was almost certain that Priest, for all his strict reverence for both doctrine and rules, would lose his nerve and leave. But he didn't. He stood there in the sooty shadows of the corridor, the glow from her single light bulb giving his thin face a skull's cast. He looked on edge, a man teetering between sin and its consequences.

Rowan froze. Her hands worked themselves into tight fists, the knuckles blanched white. Now was when she turned him away. Now was when conscience won out and she chose denial over comfort. But her courage faltered, like his, and she was left only with the phantom of her former strength, worn and weakened, a girl who still kept her rag doll and sometimes liked to dream about things she knew she shouldn't.

Rowan looked at her boots, the toes perpetually scuffed, some sand from the Wastelands still stuck between the ridges in the soles. She decided then and there that she wasn't going to ask him to leave.

"You can come in, if you want," she said.

Priest lingered on the threshold. "I'm too tired to sit," he said. His statement was a paradox, but Rowan knew exactly what he meant.

She nodded.

"You weren't at the funeral Mass," he muttered, picking an imaginary fleck of dirt from the front of his tunic.

Rowan shrugged. "The coffin was empty. It wasn't Marcus you buried today."

"But still-"

"I said some prayers on my own. God doesn't care whether I'm in my cell or in the chapel. And neither does Marcus, I'm sure."

Priest flinched and Rowan instantly regretted her callousness. Without thinking, she closed the space between them with three sure strides and put her hand on his shoulder.

"I want you to know," she said, "that none of us think this is your fault."

"I let go."

"He fell." Rowan squeezed his shoulder, her own arm aching with the effort. It was the only reassurance she could give him, a quiet promise that she hoped would sustain Priest in the depths of his own private torment. She pitied him and his heroics, which were no reward, no balm for the loss they had all suffered.

"Marcus," she said lamely, "would be pleased. He would be happy that we were able to clear Sola Mira." Rowan hesitated, and then added, "Priestess too. It was her reconnaissance, after all, that gave us the intelligence we needed."

Priest's head shot up. The bleached light played across his scalp until his skin looked like bone. "I can't-"

"This is a victory," Rowan said in a rush of breath.

Priest roughly shrugged her hand off his shoulder. "Don't you dare," he said, the threat heavy in his voice. "Don't you buy into their lies-"

"I'm not-" She touched her chest in shock.

"That day in Sola Mira." He bared his teeth when he spoke. "We failed." Priest pushed past her, his body jarring her still tender arm until she had to bite back a groan.

"Priest!" she protested.

"_I_ failed."

"But we won the war." Rowan turned to face him, dizzied by the sudden rush of pain up her bicep.

Priest had dropped down onto her bed and he had his elbows resting on his knees, his hands knotted together so tightly that the veins near his knuckles seemed ready to burst. Rowan thought he was going to deny her, tear apart her logic and reasoning and reveal her for the fool she truly was. But she had somehow managed to strike him down. He wet his lips with his tongue and seemed about to speak, but in the end, he could only clamp his jaw shut, the muscles in his neck strained with tension and what she felt might have been a vain attempt to withhold a sob.

Rowan collapsed against the door, a deep sigh rising in her chest. "My God," she whimpered, her hand pulling at her constricting collar.

It was easy to recognize Priest's guilt, that blot upon his conscience that spread like spilled ink, invading what should have been sacred and sanctified within him. Rowan didn't want him to blame himself for the disaster at Sola Mira, but it was inevitable. As soon as Priest was declared head of the Order after Priestess's death, he had begun making aggressive plans to assault Sola Mira. Rowan had assumed that his ambition came from all the reconnaissance work he had done with Priestess before she was killed and he seemed eager to undertake a new campaign against the hives that had the potential to shake the war from its stalemate. Priest was meticulous in his plotting, his skills as a tactician untested and he proceeded with caution, allotting a small force to penetrate Sola Mira, the rumored sanctuary of the vampire queen. And the offensive itself seemed to make sense, until their team actually entered the hive and found the lay-out more daunting than initially imagined. It was a high-risk mission, of course, although Rowan had her misgivings. Marcus in particular had also been uncertain and more than once, he had implored Priest to turn back.

Although she would never hesitate to defend her friend, Rowan knew that the assault had been a disaster. They were ambushed and quite effectively routed. Marcus had been separated from the group and dragged back down into the Hive. His death, however, had been enough to stir them from their apathy and their second siege of the hive was astoundingly successful. Sola Mira was liquidated, nearly three thousand vampires slaughtered and their queen supposedly along with them. The victory was indeed stunning, a triumph that had a surprising affect on the remaining hives, the vampire population relying on Sola Mira as their main breeding ground to replenish their already floundering armies.

Taking advantage of their weakened numbers, Priest had plotted assaults on some of the smaller hives and before long, the vampire population had been reduced by almost three quarters. The remaining herds were scattered throughout the Wastelands, malnourished and diseased. Without the necessary protection of their hives, they festered in shallow caves, more often than not falling victim to their more ancient enemy, the sun.

There was some talk of rounding up the last of the vampires and isolating them on heavily guarded reservations. Rowan wasn't certain how she felt about that particular idea. Extinction seemed more appropriate to her warrior's mind, although she knew that there was a great deal of debate amongst the senior clergy, who believed that wiping out any species might further disrupt whatever balance remained in their world.

Rowan herself wasn't quite so considerate, but the choice, she realized, was completely out of her hands.

Looking back over the past few months, she couldn't decide how the war had been won. Circumstance had helped, along with Priest's tireless efforts. But even through her optimism, Rowan sensed that their victory had been the result of chance and mere fortune and therefore, was somehow cheapened.

The steel frame of the door was digging into her back, the space between her shoulder blades sore. Rowan straightened. Her weariness was indistinct, a sort of soul-sickness, a malaise that went past her bones and muscles and left her spirit bereft. Priest mirrored her languid disease. He sat stooped and cowed on her bed, a figure of reduced glory stained by his own miraculous victory.

She grinned when she looked at him, her smile poisoned with resignation. "You're a hero, you know," she said.

He rubbed the nape of his neck. "Tell that to Marcus."

Rowan dismissed his cruelty, the defensive reflex he used to battle against the fear that plagued them both. Mindlessly, she crossed her cell and sank down onto the bed next to him. Their shoulders touched, their flanks pressed together and she could feel him breathe.

_Close_, she thought. _Close enough to…_

"I think," Priest said, his mouth pinched by a tense frown, "I think that we are all frightened now."

Rowan shrugged. She couldn't admit her worry to him, even though it must be plain to see. Something held her back, the final barrier between them, and she respected her natural reticence.

"Change," she muttered.

"It's more than that."

Rowan was suddenly cold. The clammy air of her cell was hostile and she missed the peculiar blessing of the sun, the harshness of the heat that was unforgiving, but pervaded her body and spirit nonetheless. There was a plain honesty about the sun, about light. Darkness was creeping and chilled. It perverted this moment between them, which should have been sacred but wasn't.

_A funeral_, she thought. _A burial. _

Why did this feel like an end?

"It's strange," she said, her breath like frost in her throat. "I hate being back in Cathedral City. I almost…I think I almost miss the front lines."

Priest bit his lower lip, pulling at the chapped skin. His expression was distant, a quiet musing that brought him closer to her if only because she knew they shared the same thoughts. "Me too," he said.

"I never understood this place," Rowan continued. "What they did to us…" She was powerless to stop the memories that rushed back to her, the loneliness of her childhood, Priestess with all her wasted fury, the deprivation, the agony of asceticism.

And in the dark, as she sat there, her hand found his. His fingers closed over hers. It was an automatic response. Pure instinct.

"It's all right," he said, but he was unable to soothe her. Rowan sensed that he didn't believe his own words, that he was just as confused as she was, only he couldn't acknowledge what had happened to him, what was still happening…

"They poisoned us," she said. "They made it so I don't want it to end…the War…what could possibly be left for us?"

Priest let go of her hand and covered his eyes with his palm. For an instant, Rowan thought he would begin to cry and that was a trespass she didn't think she could bear, a violation of her esteem for him.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady, if not soured by an overwhelming fatalism. "I wasn't sure if you'd heard the rumors or not," he said, "but I'm almost relieved you did. I didn't…I knew I couldn't be the one to tell you, Rowan."

Her heart jolted and she felt detached from her skin, as if her soul had flown free from her body. It was difficult to move. Slowly, she turned her head and tried to look at him. The light overhead poorly mimicked the sun of the Wastelands, that great, white heat that burned up the air and left the horizons shimmering with fitful mirages. In the city everything was bare and cold. Reality had sharp, defined edges. Rowan's jaw tightened, holding back her rebellious tongue. She had not heard the rumors, but Priest didn't need to know that. This moment, she sensed, was more for his comfort than for hers.

She managed to nod.

Priest's eyes were watery and pale, not the same fierce blue they were in the sunlight. He was like the crumbled pillars that could be found scattered throughout the desert, remnants of old civilizations that had only the wind and the dead to mourn for them.

Rowan wondered what it was that had made him lose his strength, but she was too frightened to guess. She pulled her thin sleeves over her cold fingers and tucked her hands clos to her neck. "Is it bad?" she asked simply.

Priest picked at the front of his tunic again. His silence was devastating. Rowan's stomach dropped, acid gnawing at her gut.

"I can take it," she assured him, her weak, nervous laugh sounding like a sigh. "I'm a lot stronger than I look."

"Courage," Priest responded, "is cheap."

Rowan was too worried to be insulted. "I have a right to be told," she insisted. "You can't deny me-"

"The Monsignors met this morning to decide the fate of our Order. Rumor has it that Orelas and some of the other senior clergy will argue that we should be disbanded. They'll hand down their verdict at the end of the week. In…in a week it might all be over."

Again, she thought he was going to cry. And if he did, Rowan knew she wouldn't be able to stop herself. She would sob right along with him, become that little girl who would always miss her home and long for the life that she had been taken from. They would hold each other and weep. The moment would be both beautiful and terrible. But such perfect fragility, such unrepentant vulnerability was not meant for her. Anger bloomed within her, a vicious venom and she fisted her hands in her blanket.

"Why?" she could only ask.

"We've outlived our purpose," Priest said numbly. "And you must understand the Monsignors…they dispose of inconveniences. It is the nature of the beast."

And despite her fury, Rowan was shocked. She had never heard Priest speak poorly of the senior clergymen before. His respect for the Monsignors was admirable, an aspect of his piety that she occasionally did not share. Most of the Priests grumbled about the Monsignors now and then, the old men who seemed so out of touch with the War. But Priest himself was steadfast. Virtuous. His seething rage confused her now, seemed so out of place with his reverence and devotion.

She looked at him, unable to restrain her curiosity. Was there a change in him? Was there a crack in his loyalty and faith? Rowan didn't know what she would do if he began to waver. For so long, he had been the foundation of her own faith, a childhood idol turned into the guardian of her belief in the world and their cause. But he was falling now, losing his wings. He had been shaken on his pedestal and would land in the dust beside her, as regrettably mortal as she was, as painfully flawed.

_Remember, you are dust and to dust you shall return._

Rowan swallowed, a violent trembling rattling her to the core. Would it be such a loss, she wondered, if he did fall? Instinctively, she reached over and took his hand. Would it matter so much if he lost his glory and became a human again, a creature like her who was just as bound to the threat of sin and the forbidden? It might be better, in a way. It might make him truly hers…

"It's strange," Priest said. He loosened her grip, raising his hand until his palm was fastened over her wrist. Her heart throbbed against his flesh and Rowan realized that it was the closest they had ever come…skin against skin, no denial, no…

"It's strange," he repeated in a low voice that matched the hum of the light bulb dangling overhead, "that we are also faced with extinction. It seems like-"

"A paradox," she answered. Her heart was beating faster. No barrier, no divide, he was sitting there with her, wondrously mortal, _hers_…

"No," Priest shook his head, and in an instant, denied her. His hand left her wrist, settled on his knee and she was cold. "No, it just seems unfair."

"Unjust," Rowan replied without thinking, choked by her own tears.

This was indeed a good-bye, she realized. She was biding farewell to both him and her hope, that desire her rational mind had long rejected, but couldn't entirely suppress. She was blighted. She was damned. She was left more alone than she ever had been in her life. And her faith, once vested in him, was broken. It lay shattered around them, a victim of the dark and her doubt. Rowan struggled with the unfamiliar pain. Her soul was finally freed from her flesh and she was conquered by the ringing emptiness inside her.

She wondered just how it was that she had lost him. But then she looked at Priest and realized that the fault wasn't hers. He had been taken. He had been stolen away…

"You're right," she whispered, the words like ice on her lips, "we failed."

And together, they surrendered to the inevitable. They sat there in the blank silence, in the helpless gloom and the only sound was from the electricity thrumming through the light bulb and the distant clang of the chapel bells.

Priest stood. "Have hope," he said, his promise a faint hint of the strength she knew was already deserting him.

She still wanted to bolster him, though, be his pillar and pedestal. "Always," she replied and her smile was jagged, pulling at her mouth until she thought it would begin to bleed.

Priest turned to go, but before he could leave her cell, he caught sight of his old book of novenas sitting on her dusty shelf. "I remember when I gave that to you," he said, jerking his chin in her direction. "You kept it?"

Rowan stood, her bed creaking. "Of course." She paused, and then added. "Do…do you want it back?"

He was looking only at her when he replied. "No," he said. "No, it's yours."

Priest left then and Rowan was alone, easy prey for the shadows that lurked and the old ghosts that came to haunt her. She thought of Priestess, falling from the height of Sola Mira. She thought of Marcus being dragged back down into the pit. She thought of Priest, whom she had simply let walk out of that door and leave her life. Because this was a goodbye. This was a farewell. This was the end, _her_ end.

"I'll never forgive myself," Rowan said and she meant it.

In the distance, the brass chapel bells continued to ring out a death knell. Marcus's funeral Mass was over.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Eek! Only one more chapter left. But don't worry, "Cross" will not be the end of this story. I have a bunch of continuation one-shots and short fics planned that I've already started work on. It seems as though the Priest universe has captured me, haha.

Thanks a million for reading! I've been having some health problems lately, plus dealing with an overabundance of course work, but I do promise to have the last chapter posted as soon as possible. It may take an extra day or two, though. Thanks in advance for your patience and understanding. I hope everyone has a lovely week!


	30. Part XXX A New Vow

**Author's Note: **Well, here it is, the final chapter of "Cross". I have to admit, I had a rather hard time making myself post this update. I wanted to nitpick and fuss over it, but if I had my way, I'd probably never post it, haha. So here goes!

Before we begin, I would like to once again thank all my dedicated readers and reviewers. I am sincerely grateful for your feedback and encouragement. I've truly cherished your support, which gave me the inspiration I needed to see this story through. This final chapter is dedicated to all of you. Again, thank you!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Priest.

**Part XXX A New Vow**

The sun was slow in setting. The smooth curve of its belly grazed the western horizon, punctured by the jagged peaks of a rocky outcropping and it spilled gilded blood over the Wastelands. Priestess enjoyed the silken warmth on her face as she sat on her motorcycle. Her shadow was long against the ground, a patch of gathering dark that puddled in the sand. Behind her, the sky ceded its jewel-toned blue for a gauzy black and the stars were timid, showing themselves briefly from behind the rising sand clouds that were stirred by the wind.

It was a strangely beautiful evening. The air was mild and Priestess thought of gentle things, of kisses which had once been forbidden, but now seemed kind, tender blessings that she would bestow on him…and that he would give to her. She knew she should be lonely, but she wasn't. Patience was the one virtue she could still claim, an endurance born from years of practiced denial. Silently, she thanked Rebecca for teaching her each lesson, for lending her some of her remarkable strength to rise and rise again, though the night came, it always came…

Priestess leaned against the handlebars. She was waiting for him in the dark. Her adrenalin was spent, her spirit resting in a grateful peace, soothed by the finale salute of the sun as it fell further behind the distant peaks. Her fingers slipped to the steel rosary that dangled from her belt. She counted the beads, let them slide through her palm as each paternoster rang gloriously in her mind.

_Our Father, who art in Heaven…_

He was not with her now, but he would be. Soon. This time was hers alone and she treasured it. She listened to the whispers of her soul and the primal rhythm of her heart and she remembered that loyalty had a price, one that she had gladly paid.

After her meeting with Peter, Priestess had consciously stepped to the side, giving Priest a few days that he might spend alone with his son at the orphanage. It was a sacrifice she had been eager to make, in the hopes that Priest's guilt might finally be assuaged and Rebecca, the deprived mother, laid to rest.

Three days had passed since Priestess last saw Priest. She thought the interval was fitting, the time it took for Christ to rise from the dead. At first, she had planned to return with Seth to the rendezvous point and reunite with the others, but Priestess was too much the loner to anticipate their company now.

"Let me wait for Priest," she had told Seth when they stopped to charge their motorcycles on the morning of the second day.

It had taken him a long time answer and he stood with one foot planted on a stony slope, his balance off-center so that he seemed to be slipping over the edge of the world. "All right," Seth said, a pleasant glint in his eye when he looked at her. "You're getting selfish," he added with a wink, "not that I can really blame you."

Priestess left him by the slopes that day and rode out into the broad desert alone, circling back to within a couple of miles of the orphanage to wait for Priest. And now she sat on her bike, a figure of collected confidence, savoring the assurance of a love that she had sheltered for so many, many long years.

She worked her way through the first two decades of the rosary, savoring the last of the sunset, which closed with shafts of red on the horizon. The lingering light in the eastern sky behind her had melted into darkness and the stars were more brazen now. Priestess tried to remember what Sage had once taught her about the constellations. God's eyes, he had called them. God's smile. And as a young girl, she had cherished his wisdom, which to her had always been so worldly. Now she knew better, of course. Now she knew that God did not watch her from the night sky, but was hidden in her own heart, a constant presence, a never-ending promise that she held onto, even when doubt seemed to triumph.

She tucked her rosary into her pocket and made the Sign of the Cross. But as she dropped her fingers close to her heart, the desert came alive around her, the shadows lit with the hollow glow of neon bike lights. Priestess straddled her own motorcycle and listened to the throaty hum of an engine as it climbed over a dune, its echo exaggerated on the windless plains.

He came at a slow clip, his dalliance deliberate and pulled alongside her with his goggles still guarding his eyes.

They said nothing for a few minutes and Priestess repeated a final paternoster. The prayer was an easy mantra that her mind could follow even when her heart seemed to double its beat. Priest switched off his bike and sat back. He put his hands on his thighs and looked right at her.

Priestess could only smile. "You weren't expecting me," she said.

He glanced over his shoulder at the way he had come. Priestess wondered if his son still called to him. She wondered what had been said and if he had told the boy about his mother.

Priest plucked his goggles off and hung them on the handlebars. He had a layer of dust on his face, the dirt streaked with rivulets of sweat that glistened by his temples. "No," he said. "I knew you'd wait for me."

The insinuation was there. Priestess did not bother to acknowledge it. There was a truthful sort of beauty in the unspoken and she relished the understanding between them, his gift to her.

Priest leaned back in his seat and for a moment, she lost him to the shadows that climbed down from the veiled sky to shroud the earth. "The others?" he asked bluntly.

Priestess put her hands on her lower back and stretched. Her shoulders were sore from sitting hunched over on her bike. She wondered if she was truly getting old, another charm lost, her youth sacrificed to a duty she still wasn't sure she understand.

"I told Seth we would meet them at the rendezvous point," Priestess replied. She hesitated before adding, "He didn't seem to mind the delay."

Priest tilted his head to the side. He seemed to be considering her and she hoped he wouldn't insist on pressing on through the night. She had searched for this time, a few hours they could spend alone together, with their secrets no longer crowding around them, suffocating the peace she knew they could share. Priestess waited for him to respond, her teeth catching on her lower lip as she silently pleaded with him to eschew responsibility…if only for once.

But it seemed useless to pray for change, to wordlessly accept what hand fate would deal to her. She looked Priest directly in the eyes.

_Strange_, Priestess thought. _He seems to be waiting too._

"We can camp here," she said quickly, seizing the opportunity that fortune had kindly granted her. "Just for tonight, of course. The others will wait for us…they understand."

Priest glanced once at his boots and she was devastated when she realized that he was going to reject her. The loss would be shattering, especially now that she knew what he had meant to Rebecca and what Rebecca had meant to him.

But Priest surprised her, as he always managed to do even after so many years. His smile was timid when he raised his eyes to her, something of the young boy returning to his face, which bore the cares of age and heartbreak heavily.

"Show me where," he said. His grin bled through into his voice and Priestess was touched by his mirth.

Her stomach fluttered, as though a moth were batting its wings inside of her. She placed her hand flat on her abdomen and her palm began to tingle.

"I'll find us a place," Priestess said. She switched on her bike and watched the dashboard light up. The glow reflected on her face as night deepened.

Priest followed her on his motorcycle as they shot off into the desert. Their tires kicked up clouds of dust behind them, the sand colored silver by the moon, some ancient goddess whose belly was swollen with child. But the shadows remained, their embrace perfumed with the stars and the quiet echo of two hearts, beating in tandem.

* * *

><p>The Wastelands ceded to open plains for several miles. Priestess had to double back towards the west, where the ruin of an old city, long reclaimed by the desert, stood as a skeletal reminder of disappointed glory. They decided to camp on the very edge of the site, far away from the nooks and alcoves that could easily conceal any nesting vampires. The night was surprisingly balmy and with a full moon shedding enough light, they could choose to forgo the usual fire. Priest insisted upon the precaution though, and he told Priestess not to trouble herself as he scrounged around the ruins for suitable kindling. In the end, he was forced to rip out the wooden frame of a door and he started the blaze at the foot of some towering building, where they had both crouched for shelter.<p>

Priestess was only slightly drowsy by the time they settled down for the night. She hadn't eaten that day and a dull headache pounded against her temples, making it hard to look into the fire without squinting in pain.

She was surprised when Priest passed her a loaf of bread he had stashed in his saddlebag.

"Where did you-?" she began.

He shrugged, taking a long drink from his canteen. "Sister Elizabeth wouldn't let me leave without it," he answered, passing her the water. "I felt miserable though, taking food from orphans."

Priestess chewed on a piece of bread, the crumbs tickling her dry mouth. She tried to chase her meal down with a gulp of water, but the liquid hit her stomach hard. Swallowing convulsively, she handed the canteen back to Priest. "That was kind of her," she mumbled.

Priest put the stopper back into the canteen. He was looking straight ahead, the light from the fire exposing all the raised scars on his face and neck. "She took good care of him," he replied at length. "I told her that I was very grateful."

Priestess was surprised that he had mentioned Peter, but in a way, she felt privileged, knowing that he trusted her with his pain.

"He seemed happy," she said, not knowing what else to say. Her words were dull and she hated the way they sounded. She never wanted Priest to think that she was patronizing him.

"Peter wanted to come with me," he said. He pushed his feet a little closer to the fire. The toes of his boots were scarred with scuffs and creases. There was mud caked under the heels. "I had to explain why he couldn't…although I have to admit, I did think of taking him home to Lucy."

"Will you ever tell her?"

"Eventually. When she's ready…or when I am."

Priestess said nothing. She tried to imagine Peter's disappointment when he realized that his father wasn't going to take him away. Or perhaps the boy was relieved that he would never be forced from the only home he had ever truly known. She liked to think that the latter was true, because she couldn't bear to leave a heartbroken child in her wake. And her conscience wouldn't allow her to offend Rebecca again, she who had been something of a protector herself.

Priestess frowned and handed the bread back to Priest. She had lost her appetite, her body disinterested in petty comforts. There existed a deeper hunger that yearned to be sated. For once in her life, for a brief, shining moment, with the stars and God's eyes watching over her, she wanted to feel at peace.

And Priest, yes, him too, of course. It was the desire that bound them together, that reaching loneliness that had taken two disparate souls and made them one. Priestess touched her fingers to her chest. She couldn't remember exactly when her soul had joined with his. Or was it the other way around?

_Indistinguishable._ The word had a satisfying ring to it. She indulged in the fantasy and watched it grow, understanding that he belonged to her in a way that was unique, that gently excluded Shannon and Rebecca and his children. It was enough to remind her of why she loved him. And it was enough to renew her devotion for a lifetime, which they would now share together.

Priestess leaned back away from the fire. The music of the flames was hypnotic, a harsh lullaby that beckoned to her warrior's heart, that solidified her belief in a world that was generally unkind, but still kept its beauty nonetheless. She looked at Priest out of the corner of her eye. He was an ascetic in the wilderness, scrubbed clean of the polluting soot of the cities and given a body that was real, flesh that was warm…and inviting.

Priestess jerked, slightly disturbed by the very real stirrings of physical desire she felt. A sudden blaze of heat bloomed in her abdomen. Her high collar pressed against her throat, the tightness all too reminiscent of suffocation.

There had been many times, many hours in ash darkened nights, when she had entertained impure fantasies. But now the temptation was much more immediate and try as she might, Priestess couldn't reconcile her yearning with sin. Her perceptions had not necessarily been altered, but the world around her seemed to have changed, taking her to a place where she was more secure and even felt…wanted.

"You'll always think of them," she acknowledged plainly, unafraid of her own pain and jealousy, which nipped at her still. "Rebecca and Shannon…they will never go away."

"Ghosts," Priest muttered. He had put away his canteen and the food and sat with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on his bent knees.

Priestess dropped her chin. "Not ghosts," she told him. "They wouldn't want to be remembered that way."

Priest seemed to think about that. A wrinkle appeared in the corner of his mouth. The vein in his temple fluttered. "Perhaps that's where I went wrong," he admitted, "trying to forget them over so many years. It was a new sin against them, to deny them even a place in my memory."

Priestess bit her lip. She knew what she was doing, what she was encouraging and it was hard not to experience any envy. She was asking Priest to remember the women he had loved. She was enshrining those thoughts and quiet memories that would come to him when his mind wandered and he remembered their smiles and his returned promises of love.

This was her sacrifice. This was her memorial to the women who had come before her. Priestess didn't know if she possessed the strength to be so selfless, but it wasn't her right to decide what happened to Shannon and Rebecca, who had each claimed Priest in their own separate way.

_I can love my part of him_, she told herself, comforted by what she knew was still hers. _But I cannot ask for more…they never did. _

It was the only assurance she would ever have, her silent pact with Shannon and Rebecca, who lived again now that they were remembered.

_I won't let him forget_, Priestess promised them. It cost her only a little bit of her happiness to make the vow, but she endured. For their sake…and for his.

Priest shuffled his feet suddenly, driving back the encroaching cinders. The sparks were like rose petals on the sand and Priestess thought of flowers, the things her mother loved …and would never see again in her wretched desert hovel.

"It is strange," Priest said, "but I think I pity Rebecca the most. For twenty years she served the Church and the legacy she left behind is tarnished. They couldn't even give her that, I suppose. They couldn't even reward all she sacrificed for them."

"You're talking about Peter?" Priestess asked. She turned around to face him fully, the right side of her body taking the full heat of the fire.

Priest shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm talking about us, Rowan. I like to think that we never belonged to the Church. The Order was something Rebecca built over the years she served. She used to tell me, on the rare occasions when she seemed vaguely sentimental, that her life wasn't dedicated to the War, but to us. She tried to protect us…in her cruel way, as you would define it…"

Priestess blushed.

"You and Marcus and Seth and all the others were the children she was allowed to keep," Priest continued. "She used what strength she had to prepare us for what we would one day become. And when we weren't strong enough…when I wasn't strong enough…she protected us from the Monsignors. Her greatest wish was that we would survive her. That was her legacy. But Rebecca failed. We have to blame her, Rowan, even after all she did. It's ironic, isn't it, that the one thing she tried to preserve she ended up destroying? I wonder if that haunts her still…if she can be haunted in death at all."

Priest's expression was so intense when he spoke that Priestess found it impossible to look away. She knew he was reaching beyond his normal boundaries, extending himself until he reached a place of raw pain that not even he had been brave enough to explore.

"It's easy to blame Rebecca for everything," she said. "That was one thing the Church taught us. We are terribly adept at finding scapegoats."

Priest rubbed his eyes, his weariness evident. "You're too kind, Rowan," he said.

"You think that I can't forgive her? You think that I'm selfish enough to hold a grudge?"

"I never said your hatred of her wasn't justified," Priest replied.

"Not hate," Priestess conceded, ready to defend herself. "I don't hate Rebecca."

Priest rolled his eyes in her direction, his sarcasm ill-placed. "I'm trying to tell you that she is a guilty," he said. "This time she does deserve the blame. It was Rebecca's betrayal, her violation that led the Monsignors to doubt us. They began to distrust the Order when their prized warrior was brought before them, stumbling under the weight of her bastard child. Think of the implications and worse, the consequences. It must have seemed like an awful betrayal to them…the dog biting the hand that feeds it. I can't imagine how shaken Orelas was."

"As if he were the one about to be ripped away from his child," Priestess said. She allowed a little bit a weakness to seep into her voice, some barbed anger that she couldn't repress.

Priest's smile was taut, no more than a grimace. "Their conscience is corruptible," he muttered, "especially Orelas and the Monsignors realized that Rebecca had become more of a liability than an asset. Their faith, you see, was never quite as strong as ours. It was easy for them to rely on their doubt, to disband us so quickly after the War ended. They had been considering it for a long time, I think. And Rebecca was their guiding light. She had the misfortune to show them the way."

Priestess let his words settle in her mind. He was surprisingly fatalistic and she disliked his pessimism. There had to be more to their lives than failure and disappointment. It was difficult to measure their Order's worth, however, when so much of their esteem had been eclipsed by the paranoia of the senior clergy. Their pride was tarnished, aged and weakened by the blind obedience that had forced them to submit to earthly gods. It was indeed an unbecoming legacy, she decided and for an instant, she was ashamed of herself for having succumbed to apathy so easily. But the years of toil must stand for something. Looking at Priest and seeing his defeat for the first time, played out so plainly in the flickering recesses of the shadows, Priestess knew that the responsibility rested with her. She would have to make their suffering and sacrifice count, because Rebecca couldn't and Priest, frankly, didn't seem to share the inclination.

They were in the darkest hour of the night now, in that indefinable space between gracious twilight and the creeping dawn. Priestess stared at the open Wastelands before her and relished in the empty space, the vast stretches of desert that seemed to promise something more than barrenness. She was grateful for the freedom, which was indeed a foreign concept, and accepted the independence that came with it. The felicitous warmth of her desire returned and she thought of the vows she had made, the rules that she couldn't break, because she had never truly understood them. Priest was sitting close by and she realized then how precious she could make this time, for her as well as for him.

Priestess let her fingers brushed the very top of his hand. She felt the hard ridges of his knuckles and the places where the skin was rough. She was not so ashamed of her own calluses when she felt his.

"It's not too late to change things," she told him. "We've denied ourselves. We surrendered our power—"

"The Monsignors couldn't take it from us," Priest added in a monotone, "unless we gave it to them first."

"This is not the legacy Rebecca deserves…"

"She had a vision. She wanted so much more for us."

"…and it's not we deserve either." Priestess brushed her thumb over his fingers. "But it's still possible…we have a chance."

Slowly, Priest turned his hand over until his palm was facing upwards and she could feel the sticky beads of sand on his fingers. "The others," he muttered. "We've come together again."

Priestess nodded, cool relief seeping into her body when she realized that he understood…he finally understood. "The Monsignors cannot order us to the front lines this time," she said, "not when we've come together of our own accord. And that is Rebecca legacy, what she gave to us and what we've kept alive for her…for ourselves. We're still Priests…"

His hand tightened around hers. His fingers curled around her palm in an iron grip and she squeezed back, until her knuckles were white and she could feel her heart beating in the veins near her wrist.

"This War belongs to us," she said.

"If we'll have it," Priest added.

The wind rose, a vicious manifestation of vengeance and it swept away the smoldering ashes of their fire. Priestess closed her eyes to keep out the sting of the cinders. When she wasn't looking, Priest pulled her hand close to his chest and she experienced a wild thrill when she felt the fabric of his tunic against her skin.

Close, God, they had never been this close.

Priestess sat completely still, hoping she would feel his heart beat, the subtle throb of life locked away in his breast. Her own pulse quickened and she was not immune to the fever of the flames. It infused the air around them, more intoxicating and exotic than the incense they burned in the monastery chapels. The smoke was bewitched and it left her enthralled. She could feel her feet edging closer to the precipice, her senses stirred by the promise of the plunge, the fall that would bring her closer to him.

He brought her hand close to his lips, the moist heat of his mouth and hectic breath bringing a burning blush to her skin.

"You are too noble, Rowan," Priest said, "Sometimes, I think we deserve more."

She felt his words, his voice touched by some secret strain. His eyes were half-closed and he seemed to be dreaming as she always had, on the nights when she couldn't remember the war, but only him. Only them…

"I waited for you," she replied. "But I wasn't sure if you were coming…if you even wanted to…"

"I didn't mean to wound you," Priest said. He raised his other hand and touched her brow, his fingertips gliding over her temple in a smooth caress. Priestess realized that he was trembling.

"I'm sorry," she said, the words no more than a lisping hiss. "When I was young I placed a burden on you that I shouldn't have. It was wrong of me to rely on you, to make you responsible for my happiness. I don't want you to resent me for that, Priest."

"How could I?" he asked. His eyebrows darted up and he seemed strangely invigorated, a untamed eagerness rendering him impulsive. "I don't think you realize that you've been a blessing to me."

Priestess turned her head away. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. She shivered in response to his touch and was poisoned by the heat building inside her, the surge of yearning that demanded she go to him and fulfill the love her heart had already promised her.

"You owe me nothing," she said. "Please don't feel obligated…there is nothing to make amends for…"

"You think I am rejecting you?" Priest questioned.

For a moment, silence settled between them. Priestess wondered if she could dare, if she could only dare to reach for him…would he be waiting for her?

"It's too painful for me," she admitted, swallowing her sorrow, which was coiled tightly around her. "To come so far with you. I'm not strong, Priest. I'd rather have my stale dreams than know you would turn me away."

And what would happen, she mused, when she found herself alone again? She was groping in the dark, more of a phantom than Rebecca and Shannon, that orphan who never found a home, that unloved soul who existed in the desert, as impermanent as the rising ashes and the pitiful, howling wind.

His hand was still on her shoulder, a reminder of her continuous denial. Priestess was determined to break away from him. She was ready to free herself at last…

But Priest wouldn't let her go. There was a harsh scraping sound, the pebbles skittering towards the fire as he moved close to her and then his lips were on her mouth. The kiss was something of a penance, his own repentance and without thinking, Priestess offered him absolution. Her hands found his face and she splayed her fingers against the back of his head, the bristles of his close-cropped hair tickling her skin. He had freckles on his cheeks and his nose, she noticed and she kissed him there, her teeth catching on his ear lobe.

Priest gasped. His hands were on her ribcage, just below her heart.

"I waited," Priestess said, her voice a quivering vibrato that mimicked the uncertain crackle of the flames. "I never asked for anything from you…"

"But would you take what I gave you?" Priest asked. His right hand moved to her jaw, along her neck, lingering in the shallow well of flesh by the base of her throat. "Could you live with yourself?" Priest asked her suddenly, as if the thought had only just occurred to him and he did not trust her devotion.

Priestess tried to find her voice again. It had fallen away into the fold of darkness, secured by a silence that was safer and more primal than the reason she usually relied on. "I've lived with my love for a long time," she admitted at last and was surprised at how easy it was to confess herself to him. She watched his expression closely, searched for the trepidation or maybe even a sign of repulsion.

The lines around his mouth disappeared, his frown softening. "Did I wait too long?" he asked.

Priestess did not hesitate. "No," she said. "There is always time."

"Not time," Priest corrected, "but faith. Why did you ever bother to believe in me, Rowan?"

Priestess smiled. She had been waiting, waiting for so long, to give him such an answer.

"Because I knew you loved me," she said.

He closed his eyes and Priestess realized that the uncertainty had been just as torturous for him. She knew well the pain of doubt. She knew the agony of futile hope, of keeping alive a wish that seemed destined to rot in disappointment. But strangely enough, the fulfillment she experienced now was not overwhelming. It had not the power she had anticipated, but rather, dawned within her, the sun rising, rising until she was certain it had been always present and never missing.

_I was never without him_, she told herself. _And he was never without me._

"I don't think it's wrong," Priestess said, leaning forward on her knees until her lips were close his ear again.

"We always knew," he replied. "So much time…wasted."

"Not wasted," she corrected. "We would have never come here together without it."

Priest grinned and touched her hand to his lips once more. "We're still Priests," he muttered.

"Forever," Priestess said and she knew it was true. The Church couldn't take that right from them…and neither would her love for him. It remained. It would always remain.

Priest turned his head towards the fire, which had burned low, leaving them in the company of the eager shadows that welcomed the lovers in a cool embrace. Priestess did not move, but let him come to her when he was ready. She reclined back on the hard-packed soil and searched for his eyes in the dark.

Priest stretched his body over hers, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders.

"It's not a sin," Priestess assured him as his mouth closed over hers.

She cupped her hand over the side of his face, his jaw moving against her palm as he kissed her again and again and over again.

Priest smiled, his lips curving against her chin. "It never was," he said.

Priestess went to him, her vow not broken, but renewed. And behind them, over the dark and broken glory of the ruined city, the sun showed on the horizon. It was slow in rising, a resurrection promise and soon fulfilled.

**The End  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Hmm, it only took them thirty chapters to finally hook up. Honestly, I had intended on leaving the ending a little ambiguous, but I thought you guys deserved something more concrete. ;)

And no, this is not the end! I have a lot more in store for Priest and Priestess, so their story will certainly continue. For those of you who were looking forward to a reunion scene between Priest and his son, it's on the way. I currently have a three-chapter story in the works that covers the three days Priest spent with Peter. Here's a preview of the summary:

_His daughter he knew, his son he didn't. Priest reunites with the boy he left behind, the child of a martyred mother, orphaned by his father's guilt._

With any luck, I should have the first chapter posted in two weeks, sooner if I can manage it.

Again, thank you all so much for being such awesome readers! It was an absolute joy writing this story and I truly couldn't have done it without your support. Take care and have a great weekend!


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